


Keep Forever

by threeplusfire



Category: Hat Films - Fandom
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Blood, Blow Jobs, Bugs & Insects, Graphic Description, M/M, Medical Torture, Minor Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 06:49:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 77,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6743848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threeplusfire/pseuds/threeplusfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a galaxy far, far away, the war between the First Order and the Resistance continues. When a stormtrooper makes an impulsive decision to aid a rebel fighter, he must come to terms with the consequences of his actions and their impact on the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In many an old KGB file, the phrase "Хранить вечно" (Keep forever) was stamped on the pages. Much of what I attribute to the First Order in this fic draws on my knowledge of Soviet history rather than Star Wars canon. Many of these things have their roots in truth, in the memoirs and histories of the 20th century.
> 
> The first chapter is especially violent, depicting war and torture. Other chapters will be less brutal but consider this one more warning that it starts rough. Later chapters will deal with the aftermath of these events and their effect on the characters. It won't always be so bleak.
> 
> On a personal note, we often write to exorcise our demons. I started this story in February 2016.

An explosion shattered the rock, sending a spray of dirt and stone into the air.  Ducking  to his knees, Resistance Commander Alex Smith held both arms over his head to protect himself from the debris  crashing  around him. Bits of dirt rained  down on him , chips of rock bouncing off his shoulders and rattling away. One of the trees nearby cracked and fell into the line of the forest. Something shrieked and flapped away into the greenery. The strafing fire of a ship in pursuit of a X-wing fighter tore up the ground around him. The noise of the battle, blasters and screams punctuated with explosions, roared from the distance.

Smith couldn’t tell if they were winning or losing at this point. A squad of stormtroopers with a heavy cannon had separated him from the rest of the group, and now he was running along the tree line, trying to get around them. If he could get back to the ship… Smith tried not to think about it too hard. He just had to get back to the ship. This whole mission was a mess, no one had what they wanted. Smith just wanted to get home alive. 

He slid round the corner, darting through a ruined outpost still smoking. Rubble littered the pathway, and Smith tried not to step on the bodies of the stormtroopers half buried in the litter of cracked concrete and twisted iron. Overhead a pair of fighters screamed through the sky, flying low. He was concentrating on them, trying to spot familiar ships, when he nearly ran smack into a stormtrooper.

“Damn!” Smith swore, startled and pointing his blaster straight at the stormtrooper’s face. 

“No!” The plaintive cry halted him. Or perhaps just seeing a stormtrooper without a helmet. The one in front of him had a face. A face streaked with fresh blood, and frightened blue eyes. Stunned by the strangeness of the moment, Smith didn’t shoot.

“Please,” the stormtrooper pleaded. “Don’t shoot.” He stumbled, and sank to his knees, raising his hands. They stared at each other across the rubble.

“Are you surrendering?” Smith finally asked. He kept his blaster aim at the stormtrooper. “Where’s your weapon?”

“Somewhere.” The stormtrooper shrugged, and wiped at the blood dripping in his eyes. “I just don’t want to die here.”

“Where’s the rest of your guys?”

“My squad got hit.” The stormtrooper gestured at the collapsed outpost. “They… the ones who survived are gone.”

“Huh.” Smith took a step closer, looking hard at the stormtrooper. His boots skidded on the cracked rubble. Up close, he could see the still bleeding injury to the side of his head, the scuffs and dirt. He’d never seen a stormtrooper’s eyes before, or heard one speak in a normal voice. They hardly even registered as human, the way their helmets distorted their voices. It disconcerted Smith to see one like this, so very young and human looking. There was stubble along his jaw, and his close cropped hair was matted with blood. His eyes were startling blue, like the lakes on Takodana.

“Looks like you and me both got left behind, buddy.” Smith sighed, lowering his blaster. He was fairly certain the dazed man in front of him was not faking.

“Yeah.” The stormtrooper sat back on his heels, letting his hands rest on his thighs. His gloves left bloody streaks on the white armor, blurring into the dirt. He looked up at Smith. 

“Help me,” he said. “This- I don’t want this. Please, help me get out of here.”

Smith raised his eyebrows, surprised. 

“Are you serious?”

“I’m so tired,” the stormtrooper said, gesturing around him. “I’m so tired, the fighting, of being afraid of dying, and now...” His shoulders slumped. “No one is coming back for me.” 

Smith glanced up and around, hearing the sounds of ships again, along with the distant percussion of more explosions. 

“Well, can’t stay here.” Smith looked at the stormtrooper. The man looked like he might be concussed, his expression vacant and defeated. It gave Smith an unexpected pang of sympathy. He held out a hand, tucking his blaster away.

“Come on, buddy.”

The stormtrooper looked at his hand and then at Smith, perplexed.

“You don’t want to stay here do you?”

“They left me here,” the stormtrooper repeated forlornly. “Thought I was good as dead.” 

“Well, no sense in staying to prove them right.” Smith helped him up. “Let’s find your gun and get out of here.”

 

* * *
    
    
      
    

The stormtrooper stumbled beside him, clutching his helmet in one hand and a blaster rifle in the other. They’d picked it up from one of the other dead stormtroopers, just in case. Smith held his elbow, guiding him over the rough ground. There were some paths, barely even trails that wound through the trees, and Smith thought that seemed safer than the roads. They were creeping through the treeline, trying to find a way beyond the fighting. The way back to the place where Smith’s ship had touched down was blocked. Now it was a matter of finding another way off the planet before the First Order caught up with him. Smith hoped that the rest of his pilots were safe.

“Damn,” Smith swore quietly. They were crouched in the trees, looking down into the meadow crawling with First Order. He’d gotten turned around somewhere in the woods. The trees were not so tall, and sunlight filtered through the gaps in the branches to the undergrowth. Long grass tangled with the low shrubs covered in small purple flowers that smelled almost unbearably sweet. Any other day, this might be a good place to lay in the grass and eat a sandwich.

“I need a goddamn ship off this planet.” Smith squeezed his hand into a tight fist, leaning against a tree.

Beside him the stormtrooper leaned wearily against one of the tall trees. The silvery green leaves stretched overhead, shading them from the sun and the ships overhead.

“We could take one of those,” the stormtrooper said. He pointed towards the handful of ships resting in the grass. They were odd in the pastoral landscape, black and silver monsters hunched over the crowds of First Order soldiers.

“How?” Smith frowned.

“Ship will scan this, and open.” The stormtrooper gestured at the tattoo on his neck. The small narrow lines formed a rough rectangle, filled with an odd pattern that reminded Smith of some old Galactic standard script. It curved across the back of his neck, just above the collar of his undershirt.

“Huh.” Smith reached out, using the edge of his cuff to wipe off the dirt and blood off the mark. The stormtrooper shivered, but didn’t move away. Smith had a strange moment of wondering if anyone in the resistance had ever actually touched one of them like this. He didn’t even know they were tattooed. 

“How does a stormtrooper have access to a fighter?” he asked, curious.

“Maintenance crew,” the stormtrooper said with a shrug. 

“We’ll have to get there first.” Smith turned back to the crowded field, stormtroopers rushing in every direction under the gaze of black clad officers. Overhead, fighters tore through the sky in pursuit of an X-wing.

“I’ve got an idea, put your helmet back on.” Smith clapped his hands, looking gleeful.

“Wait, what?”

“You’re going to pretend I’m your prisoner and we’re going to march right through them.”

“I don’t know about that…” The stormtrooper looked wary and nervous.

“It’s great. We’ll move close in, duck into a ship and be gone before anyone can raise an alarm.”

 

* * *
    
    
      
    

The hatch closed behind them with a soft whoosh, and Smith laughed loudly. He shrugged off the cuffs draped over his wrists, letting them hit the floor with a solid clang. The half assed plan had worked far better than he expected. It was just chaotic enough on the field that no one stopped to question them.

“Fantastic!” He turned to slap the stormtrooper on the shoulder, his excited grin faltering when he realized the man was sagging against the wall. “Hey, hey, stay with me.”

The stormtrooper raised his hand in acknowledgement. He struggled to pull off his helmet, sucking in a deep breath once he was uncovered. He looked almost as pale as his armor, dried blood zigzagging across his face.

“Come on, get in your seat.” There was a secondary gunner seat in the ship, and the rather tall trooper stumbled to it. Smith paused, and put a hand on his shoulder, helping him settle in. The stormtrooper seemed pretty woozy, and Smith hoped that head wound wasn’t too bad.

“You alright?”

“I’ll make it.”

The comms crackled, an almost incomprehensible rush of chatter as the ship powered up. Smith shut them off.

“No use talking to them,” he muttered under his breath. He disengaged the landing lock, and the ship lifted. They wobbled in the air as Smith figured out the controls.

The first shot didn’t surprise him. Smith spun the ship up, breaking for open air. If he could just get enough breathing room they could punch it to break atmosphere-

An explosion rocked them, and everything lurched sickeningly to the right. The power in the control deck died. Smith slapped it in frustration. There wasn’t enough time.

“Hold on!” he shouted over his shoulder to the stormtrooper as the ship started to fall.

 

* * *
    
    
        
    
      
    
    

Trooper RS-8891 blinked, and turned his head sideways. The slightly curved grey walls came into focus. He was stretched out on a metal slab, stripped of his armor. The chill cut through the thin black pants and shirt he was still wearing. His feet were bare. 

Carefully, he sat up. His head ached, and RS-8891 closed his eyes for a long moment. When the dizziness and nausea passed, he opened them again and surveyed the room.

He knew exactly what this was. RS-8891 had seen a prison block before. The pale, washed out light, the windowless door, the low slab bench against the length of the wall, the tiny sunken hole in the corner that passed for a toilet.

He stretched out his arm, touching the small grate against the wall, running his fingers over the edges. A faint stir of air raised the hair on his arm.

Before he could do much more, the door slid open to reveal a First Order officer. Instinctively RS-8891 rose to his feet, standing straight and at attention. It was painful, but RS-8891 had ignored worse. Training took over.

“RS-8891,” the officer said, sounding pleased. His brown eyes shone in the light, and he wore an incongruous smile. “You look very lively for a dead trooper.”

“Sir,” RS-8891 began. The officer had that same, almost stylized look that every officer had, only his dark hair seemed to be rather disordered. 

“I know things get confused in the heat of battle,” the officer continued as he walked around the cell. “But imagine our surprise when a trooper listed as killed in action accesses a fighter!”

“It was a mistake, sir.” 

“Accessing the fighter? Why yes, quite a grave mistake.”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, but-”

“But what RS-8891?”

“It was a mistake, marking me as dead on the field-”

“Are you suggesting your commanding officer made a mistake, RS-8891?” 

“Sir,” RS-8891 said weakly. The door opened again, and his eyes flicked to the junior officer entering the room with a droid. His eyes widened fractionally, and he looked back to the officer with a new dread.

“Officer Brinlew, your medical droid, as requested .” The junior officer smirked. His dark hair curled at his forehead and neck, and RS-8891 noted the smattering of acne on his cheeks. He looked young.

“Thank you, Marha.”

“Do you require anything else, sir?” The man asked, his voice obsequious.

“That will be all, dismissed.”

Marha grinned nastily at RS-8891 as he left the room.

“Now,” Brinlew said brightly. “I think we should talk about your rebel sympathies.”

RS-8891 couldn’t take his gaze off the droid. It hovered just beside Brinlew. Roughly spherical, it had three longer  arms that hung down from the center. The matte black surface was irregularly dotted with round mirrored sensors, providing distorted reflections of the cell. A surgical laser pivoted on the lower half, reminding RS-8891 of a weapons turret. 

Torture was officially outlawed, and the line of droids built specifically for that purpose scrapped. But the First Order modified a series of medical droids under the radar. Laws were sometimes just an inconvenience.

One of the droid’s arms lifted, revealing a long needle at the tip. RS-8891 made a small, dismayed sound. It took a supreme effort of will not to move backwards. 

“Unless you’d prefer to tell me right now who your contacts are in the resistance.” 

“I have no contacts with the resistance sir,” RS-8891 said.

“Then why would you try to aid a rebel escaping the Order?” Brinlew raised a hand, gesturing towards the wall. Surely the man was in the next cell. RS-8891 wondered how long he’d been unconscious, if the rebel fighter was even still alive.

“I-” He stopped, not knowing how to explain the moment of despair, the awful feeling of helplessness as one of his squad mates scanned him without even trying to help him. The memory rose in his mind.

_RS-8891 choked on the dust, reaching out from the rubble. The smell of burning filled his nose, scorched stone and flesh. Beside him, one of his squad mates sprawled in a rapidly spreading pool of blood. Someone else’s scream cut off, a bubbling sound. MK-4992 had straightened and moved away through the smoke after scanning RS-8891’s tattoo. The hiss of static from the damaged comm unit in his helmet lulled RS-8891 into unconsciousness. _

“I didn’t want to die,” RS-8891 said finally. “He could have killed me, but he didn’t.”

“What sort of idiotic answer is that?” Brinlew snorted. “You were afraid of dying?”

“I was, sir.”

“Don’t think you can placate me with such an answer.”

“Sir,” RS-8891 tried again. “My squad left me behind, they knew I was still alive-”

“Don’t try to shift blame onto your squad,” said Brinlew. “Now I want you to tell me why you’re aiding the rebels.”

“I’m not- I wasn’t trying to aid the rebels-”

“You accessed a ship, and allowed a rebel to take flight!” Brinlew’s voice rose threateningly. “Are you quite certain you are not a rebel yourself?”

“I have never rebelled against the First Order, sir.”

Brinlew shook his head, looking disappointed. The smile hovered at his mouth though. He couldn’t seem to conceal his enjoyment. RS-8891 had met officers like Brinlew before, ones who gloried in their cruelty.

“Well, looks like you might need some persuading.” He snapped his fingers and the droid floated forward, needle extending. RS-8891 stepped backwards this time, almost bumping into the far wall.

“Do I need to have you strapped down? It will be so much worse for you that way.”

“Sir, I don’t-” RS-8891 bit down on the inside of his cheek. 

“Just a little something to help you relax, make you feel more like talking.”

The needle bit into his shoulder, through the soft fabric of his shirt. The injection felt cold, spreading rapidly up his shoulder. RS-8891 swallowed his protest and concentrated on remaining standing. He looked at the tiny hole in his shirt, the bead of blood soaking through.

“There, that wasn’t so bad.” Brinlew sat down on the far end of the bench, closest to the door. He crossed his legs, resting his hands on his knee. “Now we can get down to the real business.”

“Sir.” RS-8891 swallowed. Sweat trickled down his back, despite the coolness of the room. 

“How long have you known this rebel? What is his name?” 

“I don’t know him, sir.”

“Come on now, RS-8891.” Brinlew tapped his fingers. “You want me to believe you took a rebel into one of our ships and aided his escape, all without knowing him?”

“Sir, it does sound bizarre but…” RS-8891 touched the side of his head, the stitched up gash. “I did suffer a head injury and it is possible…”

“Did I give you permission to move?” Brinlew’s voice was cold.

“No, sir.” RS-8891 snapped back to attention, his hands behind his back. He tried to resist the urge to twist his fingers together. 

“Possible that you hit your head so hard you briefly became a rebel yourself?” Brinlew laughed again. It wasn’t friendly. “That is one of the most absurd things I’ve ever heard.”

“Sir, my functionality was compromised,” RS-8891 said a bit desperately. “My comms were not working in my helmet after the strike.”

“So you helped a rebel because you couldn’t radio command?” Brinlew asked, his tone showing impatience. “Stop prevaricating, RS-8891, and tell me how the resistance infiltrated our soldiers.”

“I’m telling you the truth, sir.”

“Stand up straight,” demanded Brinlew. RS-8891 lifted his chin, endeavouring to hold his form as best he could. 

“It will go so much easier on you, if you stop lying to me.”

“I’m not lying, sir.” 

“Are you that anxious to be executed for your betrayals?” Brinlew raised his eyebrows and rubbed at his chin. 

“Sir, please listen to me.” RS-8891 licked his lips, his mouth dry. He felt dizzy. The lights swam in his vision.

“I’m listening to you lie to me, RS-8891, and I do not like it.” Brinlew appeared genuinely angry as he directed the waiting droid to give RS-8891 another injection, tapping a code into a small transmitter. The shot chilled him further, and made him feel a bit weak, sick. 

“Sir, may I sit?” RS-8891 gestured to the bench. He desperately wanted to sit down, worried his legs might give out beneath him.

“You may not,” Brinlew snapped. His brown eyes seemed to darken further, though maybe it was a trick of the light in the cell. “Not while you continue to lie.”

“Sir, my squad took heavy fire during a pass from the rebel ships. The outpost was destroyed by a direct strike, causing the collapse of the outer wall. Three stormtroopers were killed outright, and I was seriously wounded. My comms were damaged…” RS-8891 recited his story over and over for Brinlew, even the part where he pleaded for his life. The drugs made it easy to be truthful. But it didn’t seem to appease Brinlew. The officer seemed convinced RS-8891 was holding out, resisting the drugs designed just for these occasions.

“Sir, please.” RS-8891 squeezed his eyes shut, opened them. “I am telling you the truth, sir, as ridiculous as it sounds.”

“There is no place in the First Order for traitors.” Brinlew’s voice rang out cold and clear.

“I have never been anything but obedient to the Order,” RS-8891 said, his voice rising in desperation. 

RS-8891 swayed on his feet. The drug made him dizzy and his leg muscles were cramping horribly. Brinlew hadn’t let him shift from his position for hours as he questioned RS-8891 over and over about the day.

“Why did you have your helmet off?” Brinlew asked again. He folded his arms. The pins in his collar glinted, and RS-8891 thought how strange it was to see an officer with a wrinkled and rumpled uniform. 

“Sir, it was damaged during the explosion, so I took it off to try to get my comms working again-” 

“Removing your helmet on the field is against protocol,” interrupted Brinlew.

“I know, but-” RS-8891’s hands slipped behind his back. His arms ached, his biceps noticeably sore from the injections. Standing there, trying to maintain his posture was exhausting. 

“Stand up straight.” Brinlew snapped his fingers.

“Yes sir.” With a deep breath, RS-8891 set his shoulders back. He gripped his wrists, hoping the pressure might be enough sensation to keep him grounded in the moment.

“So you deliberately violated standard operating procedure.”

“Sir, my comms-” 

The interruptions confused RS-8891, and he struggled to find his place in the recitation of facts. Part of him was horribly conscious of the importance of not leaving anything out, not deviating from his story. He stumbled over his words, and Brinlew pounced on any hesitation or slur. The relentless barrage of questions and demands made it impossible for RS-8891 to keep track of where he was or what he had already said. He found his mind wandering, fixing on unimportant details. His mouth was dry, his tongue sticking unpleasantly as he spoke. 

“How did you meet this rebel?”

“Sir, when I managed to free myself from the rubble he came across the outpost-”

Brinlew interrupted again, waving a hand with some irritation.

“You expect me to believe that you just decided to aid this rebel you’d never seen before!”

“Sir, I was weaponless and-”

“Another violation of protocol!” 

RS-8891 opened his mouth, and found he couldn’t even think of an explanation. He felt so tired and everything in him ached.

“I can see we’re getting nowhere with you,” Brinlew said finally, his voice thick with disappointment. He rose, straightening his uniform. 

“You will come to regret this choice, RS-8891.” With that final word, Brinlew left the cell. The droid floated in his wake, silent and sinister. For a moment, RS-8891 stood there as if they might return. Very slowly, he sank down onto the bench and curled over on himself. RS-8891 felt sick to his stomach, and terribly afraid.

 

* * *
    
    
      
    

Every time the door opened, RS-8891 rose to his feet. Sometimes it was only the little droid, the R5 unit that brought in food and water at irregular intervals. Sometimes it was just tasteless crackers, or a crumbled bit of protein bar. RS-8891 had no idea how long he’d been in this cell but he suspected at least a couple days now. Long enough to feel like he was starving. The deployment down onto the planet happened before breakfast, and most of them hadn’t even gotten rations in the drop ships. The hollow edge of hunger stayed with him. It was cold, and his bare feet felt numb sometimes. RS-8891 tried to curl into himself to stay warm, even as the metal of his prison leeched away any heat. He wondered if it was a side effect of the injections they’d given him, or if it was all in his head. The thought was not comforting.

Almost constantly, RS-8891 missed his squad. He imagined their faces, silently invoked their names. Trying to sleep alone made him feel vulnerable, cold and lonely. RS-8891 longed for the comfort of other bodies, the chaste companionship of a squad sleeping side by side in their barracks. Being alone was the worst part now. It was so quiet in his cell, even the ever present hum of the ship was muffled in the walls. RS-8891 kept reaching out, expecting someone to be there. Every time he remembered, the loneliness made him feel sick. He wanted to scream, or make some sound, but the thought of it being unanswered was even worse. Part of him prayed for the officer to come back, even if it meant more pain. 
    
    
      
    

Marha and another officer called Pasyk brought in a long box, wheeling it in through the door with grunts. Pasyk’s gut threatened to burst the buttons of his uniform. RS-8891 fixated on that detail, wondering how it was that an officer of the First Order could develop a flabby stomach. A stormtrooper would never look that way. Briefly, he wondered how his squad was. If there was someone else sleeping in his bunk. He tried not to look directly at the box. Brinlew followed them in, smiling in his deceptively pleasant way. 

“We thought you might be tired of all the light,” he began, gesturing towards the ceiling. 

RS-8891 tried not to respond, concentrating on remaining at attention with his hands behind his back. The lights had been on for some time now, causing him to lose track of the time. Without his routine, the steady reliability of waking and sleeping with his squad, he was lost. His eyes felt gritty, and it was hard to sleep. Curling onto his stomach or trying to sleep with an arm over his eyes didn’t help much. Between the light and his constant hunger, he could never relax. Time stretched miserably, slow and unbroken.

“So I brought you this nice, dark box.” Brinlew rapped on the surface, and it echoed. Marha eagerly opened the lid. RS-8891 flicked his eyes to the box, his face impassive. It looked sinister, gunmetal grey and featureless.

“ Well get in already. ” Brinlew sounded annoyed, arms crossed. RS-8891 took a step towards the box, but Pasyk stopped him with a hand.

“Strip first,” he demanded. On the other side of the box, Marha giggled in his obnoxious way.

Suddenly much more nervous, RS-8891 slowly removed his shirt and pants. Marha giggled again, and Pasyk gestured towards his underwear. Reluctantly RS-8891 pulled them down and added them to the pile of clothing as Pasyk watched.

“Move.” He shoved RS-8891 towards the box. 

The inside felt slick and cool. RS-8891 controlled his breathing, trying not to panic. Surely this wasn’t how they would kill him. He was used to small spaces. He repeated his calming mantra, rattling through the decks of various fighters and the boot sequences for each ship that he’d learned when he trained as a ship mechanic. 

The box wasn’t quite long enough to stretch full length, but it was deep enough that he could move around in the space inside. A fine mesh grate covered the air vent, blocking out the light. Maybe being shut inside a box for a day or two wouldn’t be so bad, he thought. At least it would be dark.

Peering over the edge, Brinlew smiled down. His eyes were cold, and cruel. 

“Wouldn’t want you to get lonely in there.” He leaned away, and dumped a small cannister into the box. Marha and Pasyk hurriedly shoved the lid back into place, shutting RS-8891 into the blackness before he could even see what the cannister was.

RS-8891 tried to shove the cannister away, but it broke open to release a horde of small, scrambling insects. He groaned, his elbow painfully striking the side of the box. Outside, he could hear the First Order officers laughing.

The first few bites didn’t hurt that much, but then there were more and more. RS-8891 rolled and struggled, trying to crush the bugs with his body. His hands scrabbled at his skin, brushing them away or smashing them. Soon he was smeared with insects, sticky and gritty. It was even underneath his nails as he scraped at himself. His skin crawled, the sensation of more and more bugs rising from head to toe. Breathing through his nose, RS-8891 tried to concentrate on keeping them off his face and head. They didn’t seem to stop coming, and in the dark, it felt impossible to tell what was real and what was imagined. Bites pricked him everywhere, even on the most sensitive and delicate patches of skin. Gradually they burned more and more, until it was all just unbearable stinging and pain. 

Time ceased to matter. It could have been minutes or hours. RS-8891 felt it had to be the latter, judging by the exhaustion in his limbs, the struggle to keep moving in this tiny place. His throat burned from thirst, and he fought to breathe in the stifling confines. The darkness he had craved was a new prison. He kept his eyes shut, flinching at everything that touched his face. The inside of the box was warm now, slippery with blood and insect slime. The cannister rolled around behind his bent knees. 

RS-8891 groaned. He should have known it wouldn’t be so simple. He sagged, worn out from struggling. His body ached from banging into the unforgiving metal. The prickling bites continued along the rest of his body. In the long dark hours, he tried to keep himself sane by reciting lists of parts, imaginary repairs to damaged ships. His legs ached, and RS-8891 shifted to try to stretch them as much as he could in the cramped confines of his box. Finally exhaustion dragged him into uneasy sleep. 

Thirst and pain woke him from time to time. Each time, the dark remained static and terrible. The bites seemed to have slowed, but his skin burned everywhere so he couldn’t be sure. There were still bugs, crawling along his body. It seemed impossible to kill them all. Weakened by the insects’ depredations, RS-8891 could only huddle against the floor of the box with his face near to the air vent, lips cracked and dry. He realized at some point he was whimpering, a quiet, animal sound. It shamed him, and RS-8891 bit down on his lips until they bled. Eyes tightly shut against the dark, he waited for it to end.

 

* * *
    
    
      
    

Water splashed over him, bracingly cold. RS-8891 gasped, blinking against the chill and the sudden light. He was on the floor, tipped out of the box. Marha stood over him with a bucket and a grimace.

“Give him another one,” Brinlew directed, and Pasyk poured a second bucket over RS-8891. Water sluiced the dried blood and insect stains off his skin, running across the floor to the drain in the corner.

“Ugh, he stinks.” Marha waved a hand in front of his face, curling his lip.

Coughing, RS-8891 shuddered. His limbs ached as he struggled to raise himself from the floor. Brinlew’s boot caught in him the ribs, knocking him over. 

“Stay down.” Brinlew kicked him a second time.

Dazed, RS-8891 obeyed. Marha and Pasyk shoved him out of the way with their feet, and removed the box. Curled around his aching ribs, RS-8891 squeezed his eyes shut. Water dripped off his face. He licked his lips, feeling the sting.

“Now that you’ve had a nice rest you can tell us all about your resistance contacts.” Brinlew stepped on a stray insect crawling across the floor. “Marha!”

“Sir?”

“Get these bugs out of here.”

Marha swept around RS-8891, kicking him a few times as he stomped on the last of the insects. The blows made him groan. Gradually he adjusted to the bright light of his cell. He tried to focus on his hand, pressed flat to the floor. Welts and bite marks crisscrossed his skin, giving him a mottled appearance.

“Up,” demanded Brinlew. RS-8891’s legs nearly buckled under him. He staggered to his feet. The room lurched, and he bit the inside of his cheek, trying to keep himself steady. His legs shook, and he felt light headed.

“We are disappointed in your obstinence and defiance.” 

“I don’t have rebel contacts, sir!”

“Why do you keep lying to us this way?”

“I’m not lying, sir!”

“You should be ashamed of how you’ve wasted time for the Order, the damage you’ve caused with your continued-” Brinlew pointed his finger directly at RS-8891’s face.

“I am not lying!” RS-8891 shouted, his voice rising. 

The slap of Brinlew’s hand snapped his head to the side. RS-8891 tasted blood. 

“Back talking an officer is an offense, RS-8891,” Brinlew said calmly. A hint of a smile pulled at his mouth.

“Sir-”

“Oh now you remember.” Brinlew laughed. “Covering yourself when you’ve been caught out.” Brinlew slapped him again with the back of one leather gloved hand. 

Shaken, RS-8891 gripped his elbows. His arms were folded behind his back and he stood at attention. His face stung, and dread curdled in his stomach. He still felt weak from his ordeal in the box. All he wanted was to sink to the floor and curl up, protect his face and ribs from Brinlew’s blows. 

“You’re a disappointment to your squad, RS-8891.” Brinlew shook his head in disappointment. “A disgrace to the  fine training and care the Order has given you.”

Aching, RS-8891 stayed silent. 

“Are you certain you don’t have anything to tell me about your rebel sympathies?”

“Sir, I am not a rebel,” RS-8891 said, trying to make his voice firm. “I have always been a loyal soldier-”

“Always lying,” Brinlew interrupted. “When will you learn not to lie to me?” 

 

* * *
    
    
      
    

The food stopped coming almost entirely. At least there was water, RS-8891 thought. Dying without water was a terrible thing. The suspicion that he wasn’t going to leave the cell alive lingered in his thoughts. RS-8891 tried to push it away, but it was hard to think of much else. Between his hunger and the weakness he still felt from the insect bites, it was easy for despair to slip in the cracks. The long stretches of silence wore at him. Mercifully, they started turning out the lights, giving him a few hours at a time to catch a little sleep.

Brinlew kept returning, sometimes accompanied by the other officers. He kept asking the same questions over and over again. RS-8891 wondered if perhaps he should just lie, make up something about the rebels just to get it to end. Maybe something would change. Maybe they would feed him if he could think of something. But he just didn’t know anything, not beyond what any stormtrooper knew about rebels.

Every time he answered a question and it dissatisfied Brinlew, it provoked more pain. The latest round of questioning had involved Marha beating the soles of his feet to encourage him to tell the truth. The blows of the baton stung more than RS-8891 expected. Marha clearly took malicious joy in the exercise, striking hard enough to bruise his feet. He would be lucky if nothing was broken. Standing was now even more agonizing. RS-8891 laid on the floor, carefully putting his feet up on the bench. There wasn’t much he could do to help it. Maybe this would at least help the swelling go down. He carefully touched the tender skin, wincing at the darkening bruises the spread across his heels.

RS-8891 laid back on the floor and closed his eyes. His hands rested carefully on his stomach. The floor under his back was cold, and hard. The awful silence still unsettled him, but it was better than the presence of Brinlew or any of the First Order officers who accompanied him. He tried to concentrate on something other than how much he ached, imagining the wing struts of a fighter and mentally unscrewing bolts to disassemble it. He chewed on his lips, wondering if there was forgiveness to be found if he begged. Or perhaps he would be executed. His mind shied away from the thought, and the overwhelming terror behind it. RS-8891 didn’t want to die. All the training of his life prepared him for that possibility but now that it was here he couldn’t face it. The very idea gave him cold sweats and a terrible desire to run.

 

* * *
    
    
      
    

RS-8891 snapped awake at the sound of the door opening. The semi-darkness was broken by the shapes of men entering his cell. Before he could sit up, hands dragged him off the floor. 

Their silence was terrible. He expected the blows, the sharp kicks and punches. RS-8891 tried not to fight, but it went against all his training not to respond. He shoved one of them away, heard the man grunt as he struck the opposite wall.

“Oh now you’re in for it,” one of them whispered. He thought the voice might be Pasyk. A heavy fist connected with his stomach, and they knocked him down. A blow to his ribs made him gasp, the searing pain gripping his chest. RS-8891 struggled as they pulled his clothing off and restrained him, hands cuffed to his ankles so he was forced to kneel with his back slightly arched. A bar was wedged between his knees and fastened into place to hold his legs apart. Behind him, he heard Marha’s unmistakable snigger.

Humming, blinking a series of red and white lights, the droid floated back into the room. The long, flexible arms lifted like an array of tentacles, moving with some dreadful purpose. The brightness of the lights along the top made the rest of the droid indistinct in the shadows. The vagueness of the shape and threat made it one of the more terrifying things RS-8891 had ever confronted. 

“Please, no,” he whispered, voice sticking in his throat. The droid hovered in front of him now, and the men stepped away with a murmur of anticipation. 

The first needle startled a gasp out of him. Whatever it injected seemed to make everything more sensitive. His nerves burned, the not unbearable strain of his restraints soon rising to agony. RS-8891 could feel every bruise rising on his skin from the beating, the ache in his ribs that meant something was definitely broken, the strain in his back and arms. He tried to control his breathing, to remember the training meant to help him ride out the pain, but it was no use now. 

Blinking ominously, the droid activated a tool meant for cauterizing wounds. The light nearly blinded him, and RS-8891 squeezed his eyes shut. The heat of it came closer and closer, radiant warmth over his bare chest. Biting hard on his lip, RS-8891 breathed through his nose. His first scream stayed in, strangled in his throat as he tried to hold himself together. But the second one burst free, loud in the small room. Again and again it touched him, laying a finger tip of fire to his chest. RS-8891 couldn’t think of anything but the pain, radiating through him in bursts that lingered. He screamed himself hoarse, his entire body shaking as the droid repeatedly burned him. After drawing lines of agony across his chest, it switched to his thighs. The smell of burning hair and skin nauseated him. RS-8891 couldn’t form words to ask for it to end. All he could do was scream, struggling against his restraints. Someone held his head, keeping him upright when he threatened to topple over in his thrashing.

When it finally pulled away, RS-8891 couldn’t stop shaking. His shoulders ached from pulling helplessly at the restraints binding his wrists to his ankles. His thigh muscles quivered, the desire to close his legs and protect himself from the droid tensing all his muscles. Humming menacingly, the droid gave him another injection before it floated backwards. RS-8891 whimpered, the needle stinging his arm. He waited anxiously for new torment but the droid drifted out of the room without any further actions.

For several long moments RS-8891 knelt there breathing hard and whimpering. He was almost convinced they meant to leave him there when someone unfastened his restraints. Collapsing forward onto the floor, RS-8891 brought his arms to his chest and curled over into a heap. He barely heard the voices of his tormentors, laughing and talking over him. They left him there, naked on the floor of the cell. Pain still jangled his nerves, leaving him unable to find any position that relieved it. The cool metal of the floor at least soothed some of the burning. RS-8891 slowly dragged himself back up to the bench. Ignoring his clothes, he laid there unable to think of anything but the agony.

 

* * *
    
    
        
    
      
    
    

Smith found the quiet unsettling, and dreadfully boring. It was just him and the hum of the ship, the regular beep of the droid who brought his food and said nothing else. Smith kept trying to get it to say something, anything. 

The muffled screaming of the man in the cell next to him unnerved him, but then it had gone quiet again. This wasn’t the first time. Smith had hesitantly called out, his head resting next to the air vent in the wall.

“Hey, you alright buddy?”

Smith leaned against the cool metal panel, thinking he’d never even taken the time to ask the guy’s name. He was pretty sure the man in the cell next to him had to be the stormtrooper who had helped him take the ship. Unless they’d just executed him on the spot. Smith hadn’t seen where they’d taken the unconscious stormtrooper after others hauled them out of the wreckage. 

But the voice sounded familiar enough, at least until the screaming started. It happened during the nights, or at least during the period of dim light they gave him. It was never fully dark in his cell. 

“I don’t know about you,” Smith continued, talking for the sake of talking. “But this place is pretty lousy. The food is terrible. The bed is terrible. I guess you’re seeing more people than me. I just got that droid that brings the plate and takes it away.” Rambling away at the vent gave him at least the illusion he wasn’t totally alone.

Smith wondered when they would start interrogating him. Soon, surely. He was surprised it hadn’t started already. Maybe listening to the sounds of the cell next door was meant to break him down. Or maybe they thought the poor bastard knew something. He grimaced, wondering if his impulsive act had doomed another man. Even if he was a stormtrooper, Smith didn’t like the thought of someone being tortured. Clearly the First Order was torturing their prisoners, confirming the rumors they’d started hearing. The General would want to know, if he could get out of this place.

Pushing away from the grate, Smith began pacing the cell again. The tray on his bench held the remains of his meal, the same meal almost every day. Smith was very tired of vegetable mash and protein bars and dry, tasteless bread. He daydreamed about having a proper meal, kebaps full of juicy meat and dripping with sauce, the crunch of tangy pickled vegetables. Even the bland, warm porridge served in the communal cafeteria would be better than the cold food here. Even better would be the fried chips from that cantina near home. Thoughts of food kept him entertained at least, as he passed the long hours waiting to see what the First Order intended to do with him.

 

* * *
    
    
      
    

The droid hovered menacingly, the black sensor domes shiny and sinister across the top. Definitely more than just a med bay droid, Smith thought, shifting so Brinlew was between him and the droid. The other two First Order officers remained by the door, their gazes avid. Brinlew hadn’t bothered introducing them, only himself.

“What a pleasant surprise, to have the infamous Alex Smith with us here.” Brinlew surveyed Smith from head to toe. “You’re rather tall for a pilot.”

“You’re rather short for an officer,” Smith said casually. Brinlew rolled his eyes.

“I see you’re exactly as arrogant and reckless as our reports lead us to believe.”

“Your reports forgot to say ‘devilishly handsome’ too.”

“They did say the captain of the rebel fleet was distinctive for his looks, if not his good tactical decisions.”

Smith shook his head and gritted his teeth.

“Try harder, why don’t you?” 

Brinlew pointed to the chair brought into his cell. It took up most of the space between the bench and the door. It was all metal, and had unmistakable restraint locks. Smith didn’t relish the idea of being locked in there. 

“Do have a seat.”

“No thanks.” Smith shook his head. He was going to stay right here, in the far corner. He wanted to keep space between him and the chair, as well as the droid. 

“I can make you sit down.” Brinlew looked put out by the refusal.

“Then do it.” Smith leaned back against the wall. He wasn’t going to start the fight, but he certainly wasn’t going to make it easy. Brinlew had the look of someone who would enjoy this all too much.

“Rebel scum,” one of the other men muttered. He cracked his knuckles and spit. Saliva clung to his mustache. Smith nicknamed him the fat one in his head.

“So tiresome,” Brinlew complained. He waved a hand, and the other two officers moved forward. The younger looking one reached for Smith, and Smith casually jerked his arm free. The fat one tried to hit him, and Smith ducked it easily. 

“Fuck off,” Smith hissed. The fat one tried to hit him again, and Smith shoved him hard enough that the man fell back on his ass. The baby faced one stepped back, startled. With a menacing grin, Smith cracked his knuckles and planted his feet in a fighting stance. When the officer moved towards him, Smith casually swung his fist to get him to back away.

“What are you doing, you idiot?” Brinlew stared at the man on the floor with disdain. “Get up, Pasyk!”

The fat one scrambled to his feet, his face red. He snatched his cap from the floor. The baby faced one sniggered, earning a sharp glare from Brinlew.

“Useless,” Brinlew muttered. “Out!” 

The two officers slunk out, and Smith waved with an insincere laugh. 

“I had no idea First Order officers were such lightweights.”

Brinlew set his lips, giving Smith a fixed stare.

“I’ll spare you the preliminaries. You know perfectly well what we want: the access codes of the rebel fleet. If you provide this information, it will save you a great deal of suffering.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Smith said pleasantly. He propped one foot against the wall and crossed his arms. 

“You’re making quite a mistake.” Brinlew shook his head.

A different pair of officers entered, ordinary looking men with the same haircut every First Order officer seemed to have aside from the sniveling baby faced one. They only came up to his shoulders, shorter than Brinlew. These two had the same short beard, and strikingly similar faces with chubby cheeks and small eyes. Brinlew snapped his fingers and pointed towards Smith. 

These two were less cowardly than the first pair, sidestepping the chair and coming right for him. Smith put up a fight, not making it easy for them. He kicked and punched recklessly, enjoying the feeling of landing blows. They tried to grab him, not wasting time punching back. Soon they wrestled him into the chair and it was all over then. The restraints locked over his wrists and ankles, imprisoning him. Furious, Smith spat at one of the officers as they retreated from the room. 

The droid floated forward, humming faintly.

“Why is that thing here?” Smith demanded.

“It’s a medical droid, in case you require any medical assistance,” Brinlew answered in a bland, bored tone.

“Bullshit,” said Smith. 

“I can assure you it is state of the art equipment,” continued Brinlew as if Smith hadn’t spoken. “In fact, I think you might need to calm yourself. Something might be in order.” 

The droid moved closer, one of its dangling arms lifting to produce a needle. Smith watched intently as it injected his arm, the needle sliding into his skin effortlessly. He breathed out, shaking his head a little and trying to settle himself. This little charade didn’t surprise him. Smith had expected something like this. With a grim smile, he lifted his hands as much as the restraints would allow to make an obscene gesture.

“You’re going to be disappointed,” he warned.

Brinlew shook his head again.

“Fight it all you want, but you will give me the information I want in the end.”

_ You’d better hurry up _ , Smith thought.  _ This is not going to be fun. Where the hell are you, Trott? _

The droid gripped his arm, pushing another needle deep into the inside of his elbow. This one was larger, and the dull ache spread. Quickly it started an IV drip, something cold and clear. If Smith shifted his arm, he was unpleasantly aware of the metal inside him. It made him want to claw it out. 

First, the fear. That was the easiest part to ride out. Smith knew it wasn’t real, even if it clogged his throat and made the hair on his arms rise. It was just the drugs, he reminded himself. Nothing had changed. They weren’t going to kill him yet, not before they got what they wanted. They weren’t going to waste the opportunity to question a leader of the resistance.

Smith lived with fear. He could find fear any time his pilots dropped out of hyperspace to launch an assault on the First Order, or the fear in wondering if this was a  plan too risky , a ship’s limits pushed too far,  a laser burst too close . Fear was old, and familiar. Smith felt fear every time he made choices. 

Fear didn’t make Brinlew’s interrogation more threatening, or increase Smith’s willingness to answer. Even the uncertain fear of what they’d done to reprogram this droid wasn’t enough. Smith tried to focus on the sensations brought on by the drugs. Someone would want to know, when he got out of here, what exactly they’d done. He kept repeating it to himself, that it was when and not if. He would make it out of here.

“This ends when you start telling me what I want to hear,” Brinlew promised. He held a vial up to the light before slotting it into the droid. 

“What are the access codes for the rebel fleet?”

Smith laughed, the sound hysterical and unnatural. Pressed back into the chair, he jerked against the restraints on his wrists more for something to do than out of any hope of getting free. 

“No,” Smith repeated again and again. Sometimes he swore, sometimes he screamed it. But he clung to the word, his only weapon. 

After fear came pain, and more drugs to make the pain more intense. Pain was harder, less easy to control. But it was expected, and that took some of the edge off for Smith to know it was coming. He could see the drugs pushing through the line to his arm. No surprise they would give him something to make his nerves tingle, creating phantom sensations of agony. A hysterical bubble of laughter threatened to escape him. It was just absurd that they were exactly the picture perfect villains, with their drugs and their torture.

Smith let himself scream. It did him no favors to pretend to be unaffected except to encourage worse attention. The First Order was ruthless in the hunt for a way inside the resistance movement. They were all cautioned at the beginning, that this sort of torture was a possibility. Lucky enough for Smith, he had Trott to teach him how to ride out most of it. Smith tried to remember sitting on the floor with Trott, their knees almost touching, as Trott walked him through the practice of meditating and trying to connect with the Force. All those games seemed far away now, but it helped him cling to his sanity. 

The droid lifted an arm, pressing a paddle covered in small spikes to the skin on the inside of his forearm. They were not sharp enough to cut. But the sensation, combined with the drugs floating in his blood, made it feel agonizing.

So he screamed more, letting the sound ring out in the tiny room. There was some small satisfaction in catching a glimpse of the annoyance in Brinlew’s expression, the way he angled himself backwards as if to lessen the sound. Smith thought too, that if he screamed enough, he’d lose his voice and then there wouldn’t be any point in asking further questions.

This was an endurance game now. In the back of his mind, he wondered when they would bring in an interrogator who could use the Force to try to crack the information out of his skull without these crude methods. Soon enough they’d replace this sadist with someone actually interested in breaking his secrets. 

The droid hovered at his shoulder, a black shadow just behind him. Periodically it extended an arm to check his vital signs and monitor whatever drugs were flowing with his blood. Brinlew kept frowning at it, tapping at the control pad when he didn’t like the answers. The droid would beep a soft warning when the commands exceeded whatever safeguards remained in its software.

Brinlew’s gloved fingers jerked Smith’s head back by his hair, disrupting the tangent of his thoughts about droids. He frowned down at Smith. This close, Smith could see the man’s stubble along his cheeks, the folds of his collar and the shine of his rank insignia. 

“Why are you being so uncooperative?” Brinlew punctuated each word with a shake, and Smith moaned. His mouth was dry, his jaw aching from clenching. 

“Fuck you,” Smith rasped. He managed a lopsided grin, wincing as Brinlew shook him again.

“We’ll give you something to really scream about.” Smith’s head sagged forward. Beside him, Brinlew angrily tapped commands into the droid. The IV needles retracted from Smith’s elbow, and he hissed at the unpleasant sensation. Blood dripped along the inside of his arm, running dark and red.

Staring at it, Smith hardly noticed at first he was just alone with the droid. Letting his head rest against the back of the chair, he studied it. The droid waited, silent and still. A light blinked on the top, red then white.

“You here to keep me company?” Smith asked. The droid didn’t respond. It’s arms hung down, limp cables that reminded him of jellyfish.

“Bet you’re listening to everything, recording it all. That’s what you used to do, when you were dedicated torture droids. I know. I’ve read all about it.” Smith swallowed. His throat felt raw, like he’d swallowed sand. His body ached, coiled tension in all his limbs. Smith struggled to relax, to take advantage of the quiet. Not being able to see the door unnerved him, though he counted on hearing the sound of it opening.

Shock was creeping up on him, and Smith struggled to remain coherent. He shivered more and more as the minutes dragged on. The droid moved forward again, sensors extending to check Smith over. It began another IV, punching a needle into Smith’s other arm. He grunted, trying to still himself. The same dull ache spread. Smith hoped it was just saline and not more drugs.

He closed his eyes, imagining Trott’s easy laugh as they learned the exercises to help stay calm. If he concentrated, he could almost hear Trott’s voice, telling him to breathe. Smith sucked in a breath, trying to count like they’d practiced. He was uncomfortably conscious of all the physical sensations. Cold metal chafed his wrists, and his skin prickled like someone had rubbed him with steel wool. He felt both exhausted and keyed up, bouncing from wanting to pass out to feeling the need to leap up and run. 

By the time Brinlew returned, Smith was shivering violently in his chair. His teeth chattered if he didn’t hold his jaw shut. Across the room, he could see his jacket discarded on the bench. Smith wished he had kept it on. “It is a shame you’ve missed the dinner hour,” Brinlew said casually. He held a clear cup in his hand, the water sloshing back and forth. He glanced at the droid, listening to its dry recitation of Smith’s vital signs. When the droid beeped about safety protocols and hydration levels, Brinlew punched an override code. 

“I’m sure you’re just fine after that little rest.” Brinlew took a drink. “Perhaps you’ve thought it over and decided you’d like to talk now.”

“Fuck off,” Smith grunted. “No.”

“How about something different?” Brinlew took another drink, staring at Smith. “You can tell me when the rebels decided to corrupt my troops.”

“What?” Smith blinked, puzzled by the jump from Brinlew’s relentless obsession with the topic of access codes. He bit his lip, mentally chastising himself for responding even as he tried not to chatter his teeth. Whatever the droid was putting into him, he didn’t like the dizzy, loose feeling it gave him. Brinlew set down his cup.

“How long have you been in contact with the stormtroopers? How many of them?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Smith closed his eyes. Brinlew backhanded him, the sound of the slap loud in Smith’s ears. It startled him, given how little Brinlew had touched him so far.

“I am weary of your obstinance and lies,” Brinlew snarled. “You will tell me what I want to know.”

Smith stared at him for a moment. His mouth tasted of metal, but he didn’t know if that was the drugs, or if he was bleeding. Carefully he touched his tongue to his lip, feeling around the split. 

“No,” he said finally. “I don’t have anything to tell you.”

Brinlew pressed his lips into a thin, bloodless line. With a jerk, he lifted the droid’s control pad and pressed buttons. The hum increased as the droid raised its other arms. Smith watched them uneasily, trying not to flinch away.

“You are just determined to suffer, aren’t you?” Brinlew urged the droid forward, overriding the safety protocols again.

It placed one sensor arm against Smith’s neck, checking his pulse and other vital signs. The other shocked him, a nasty jolt. Shouting, Smith flailed in his restraints. The droid shocked him again, and again, beeping almost continuously as Smith screamed. His heart raced, thudding in his ears. Each shock felt like a kick to the chest, like something heavy slammed into him and left him gasping for breath. His fingers tingled as his hands scrabbled uselessly at the arms of the chair.

“Ffffuu-” Smith bit his tongue when the next jolt hit. He clenched his jaw and screamed through his teeth.

Waving the droid back, Brinlew stepped forward to put his face very near Smith’s. 

“I can keep doing this,” Brinlew said. His voice was soft and reasonable. 

“So can I,” Smith groaned.

“Can you?” Brinlew smiled. He stepped back and unhooked a stun baton from his belt. 

“Get fucked,” Smith whispered, watching the crackling spark as Brinlew activated the baton.

The first touch ripped another scream out of Smith. Every muscle seized as he spasmed in the restraints for a few seconds. Nothing existed but the pain, a white haze of agony. It was infinitely worse that the shocks from the droid. 

When it ended, Smith took a ragged breath. His head flopped back to the side as his chest heaved. Those few seconds felt like an hour.

“Tell me what I want to know,” Brinlew demanded in a bored voice. He struck Smith again, the baton sizzling. Smith’s vision blanked out for a moment, and in some corner of his mind he wondered if the pain would make him pass out. 

The door opened, and Brinlew glanced over his shoulder.

“What do you want, Pasyk?” he asked irritably. “I told you-”

“Sir,” Pasyk said, his voice uncertain. He shook his head. “I-” The man half turned, and his eyes widened. Before he could say anything else, a lightsaber stabbed through his gut. He gurgled and collapsed forwards. Smith turned his head to his left, watching him fall in dreamy slow motion. He wondered for a moment if it was a hallucination.

A slender man stepped into the room, carrying a golden lightsaber. He wore all black, from his boots to his gloves to the form fitting pants and shirt. A hood hung down his back. Smith grinned, his split lip still bleeding.

“What are you doing here?” Brinlew raged, straightening as he pulled a blaster from the holster at his waist. 

The Jedi deflected the blaster shot, and moved forward with speed. Brinlew turned, pointing the blaster at Smith but it was too late. The Jedi smashed into him, and the shot struck the droid instead. It fizzled with a shower of sparks, emitting a series of beeps before sinking towards the floor.

“Fuck him up, Trott!” Smith shouted in a ragged voice, trying to watch as Brinlew fought the Jedi. Trott smashed the blaster with his lightsaber, furiously swinging. Brinlew shoved him back and scrambled around Smith’s feet, trying to put Smith between himself and the furious Jedi. Smith cheered as Trott launched himself over the chair, landing a glancing blow to Brinlew’s leg. The officer screeched as he fell to the floor He rolled onto his back, looking up at Trott with fury. 

“How dare you!” Brinlew shouted. 

Before he could say another word, Trott stabbed him in the throat. Brinlew stiffened, face contorted in a silent scream. The lightsaber hummed, the faintest sound of a sizzle to the glowing orange blade. Trott kicked him away before turning to Smith. That annoyed gesture made Smith chuckle, it was so familiar. This was definitely real.

“Thank fuck you’re here,” Smith said, letting himself collapse back in the chair. Trott switched off his lightsaber with a little sigh. He ran a hand over the arm of the chair, searching for the mechanism to unlock the restraints. With one hand free, Smith pulled the IV out of his arm with a pained groan. Blood trickled from the wound.

“Can you walk?” Trott asked urgently as he helped Smith to his feet. One hand lingered on Smith’s back.

“Course I can walk,” Smith snorted. He made an obscene gesture as he stumbled towards the bench, stepping over Brinlew’s corpse. Resentfully, he let himself grind his heel down on the dead man’s fingers.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Smith snatched his jacket. Trott searched his many pockets, finding some bandages to press to Smith’s elbows. He paused, giving Smith a searching glance. Flecks of gold glimmered in his brown irises, and Smith wanted to kiss him senseless. 

“Let’s go, we don’t have long to get off the ship.” Trott pulled him out the door. Smith grabbed Pasyk’s blaster, feeling more confident with a weapon to hand.

They nearly collided with another First Order officer in the hall. Marha’s eyes widened. He reached for his weapon, tugging it free of his belt. Before he could fully raise it, Trott swung his lightsaber, the glowing blade springing to life. Marha screamed shrilly as Trott cut off his hands neatly at the wrists.

“Come on.” Trott started down the hall, holding his lightsaber to one side.

“Trott, wait!” Smith grabbed for his arm. “Open this cell!”

“What? Why?” They both ignored the officer sinking slowly to the floor, gibbering and cradling the stumps of his arms.

“There’s someone in there we need to rescue.”

“Did they capture someone else?” Trott frowned. “We thought everyone else made it back.”

“Hurry, Trott.” Smith kicked at the door in a futile attempt to open it.

Trott grabbed Marha by the front of his uniform, lifting him slightly. “Give me the door code.”

Hysterical, Marha stared at him for a moment. His lips moved, whimpers instead of words. Trott tried again.

“Tell me the door code,” he said in a voice full of persuasive power. Dazed, Marha recited the code and Smith punched it into the keypad. He burst in before the door could completely open. 

“It  _ is _ you!” he exclaimed. The stormtrooper from his reckless escape attempt was there, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. He looked terrible, wearing only a long sleeve shirt and pants. His bare skin showed odd reddish welts, and there was a bruise shadowing one side of his face. 

“Come on, buddy, we’re getting the hell out of here.” Smith moved forward to give the man a hand up. Surprised, the stormtrooper pushed himself half to his feet. But he froze, eyes widening with a look of unmistakable fear. Smith glanced over his shoulder at Trott, guarding the door with his lightsaber glowing.

“Don’t worry, he’s on our side. He’s our ride. Well, my ride, but-”

“Smith, if you’re making an obscene joke now-”

“Come on, Trotty,” Smith laughed. “It was hilarious.” He lurched forward to help the stormtrooper up. He felt shaky on his feet, but Smith gritted his teeth and powered through. They didn’t have time to rest.

“Can you move?” asked Smith, his voice more serious as he took in the stormtrooper’s condition. The man, he told himself. The man who had tried to help him escape, and probably suffered for it. 

“Yeah.” The man swallowed, his voice rough. “I can move.”

“We’ve got to get back to the hangar bay, Zo’s holding the ship.” Trott urged them both up and out of the cell.

In the corridor, Marha sat in a puddle of blood with his arms clutched to his chest. He was rocking, half shrieking sounds through his teeth. His severed hands lay on the ground beside him, one still clutching a blaster pistol. When he caught sight of them, he tried to scramble back with a little moan.

The stormtrooper paused, looking down at the officer. The man, Smith reminded himself again. The man crouched, and took the blaster from Marha’s dead hand. He checked the weapon carefully, then took aim at the officer on the floor.

“Stop!” Marha shouted, his voice cracking. “I order you-”

He fired once, striking Marha in the gut. The officer screamed, shrill and high. The ion smell of the weapon mixed with the scorch of flesh. He stared down at the screaming officer for another beat before shooting him in the head. The silence was abrupt.

Trott watched impassively. Smith gave him a half smile of understanding, and put a hand on the man’s back. Smith had listened to the sounds from the next cell. He didn’t feel too bad about watching him kill the baby faced officer. If Trott hadn’t killed the fat one and Brinlew already, he would have done it. 

“Let’s get out of this dump.” Trott glanced anxiously down the hallway. Somewhere, a siren sounded.

“There’s a service corridor,” the man said abruptly. “For droids, workers. Troops wouldn’t use it.”

“Can it get us to the hangar?” Trott demanded, curious and terse.

“Yeah.” The man gestured to a wall hatch opposite them. “I know the way.”

“Smith, who is this?” Trott demanded. “Who are you?”

“Uh, well. I never did get your name.” Smith held out his hand. “I’m Smith, this is Trott.”

“RS-8891,” he answered, hesitating. His voice sounded rough. “Formerly of squad 512, I suppose.”

“A stormtrooper?” Trott exclaimed. His lightsaber still glowed, the hum loud in the otherwise silent hall. RS-8891 watched him, holding very still. 

“He tried to help me escape. Trott, look, I’ll explain later. Let’s just go!” Smith pushed both of them towards the hatch. Trott powered off his lightsaber, but kept it in his hand.

They clambered through the service hatch, into a series of narrow corridors crowded with pipes. Only droids passed them, repair units that ignored their presence or seemed unconcerned by it. Smith kept the blaster in one hand, following close behind RS-8891. He tried not to think about how tired he was, how much he hurt. Smith could see the raw skin at RS-8891’s wrist, the bruising shadowing under the edge of his shirt. Even the man’s feet were bruised. Walking on these grates could not be pleasant, he thought. But he didn’t make a sound, stoic and silent as he lead them through the maze.

“Come here often?” Smith joked as they paused in the juncture of hallways. RS-8891 looked at him for a moment, slightly puzzled. Trott rolled his eyes.

“Shortcut to get from the mess hall down to the hangar,” RS-8891 explained. “We just go down here, service hatches all along the landing bay floor.”

“Get us close to the edge, that’s where Zo’s got your ship.” Trott peered down the hallways.

“You let Zo fly my ship?” Smith exclaimed.

“Wouldn’t have if you hadn’t gotten your worthless ass captured,” Trott muttered.

“You came to save my ass, because it is a very nice ass,” Smith said with a grin. “How’d you get in?”

“Brute force,” Trott answered as they clambered to the end of the corridor. “Soon as we have you, the diversion makes a run for it and we all go home.” 

When RS-8891 cracked the door open, Trott shifted to stand beside him. Smith noticed the way RS-8891 flinched away. The crackle of blaster fire sounded from the hangar. 

“We’re going to have to book it.” Trott fished a communicator out of his pocket. “Zo, we’re coming in, drop the ladder.”

“You got it!” Zo’s voice crackled over the communicator.

“Stay low, follow me,” Trott said as he studied the hangar. “They’re far right, Smith, if they notice us you’ll need to lay down cover.” He glanced back at RS-8891 curiously. 

“You’re coming with us,” Smith said, before anyone else could speak.

“I have to,” RS-8891 said, his voice soft. “I’m a dead man here.” 

“On three.” Trott counted quietly, then pushed out the door. They sprinted towards the ship, bent low. Smith heard the shout of someone’s attention, and fired randomly towards their right in an effort to screen them. The run felt so long, and his legs were wobbly underneath him. Adrenaline carried him to the shelter of his ship, the hatch dropping open for them just in time. Smith pushed RS-8891 ahead of him, and turned to shoot furiously at the stormtroopers moving a heavy gun towards them. Two of them fell in the spray of fire.

“Fuck off!” Smith shouted, unloading the blaster even as he skipped backwards to the ship’s waiting hatch. Barely inside, he felt the rumble of the ship as Zo lifted off.

In the cockpit, Trott sat in the copilot seat and pulled a headset on to contact the other pilots. Zo looked over her shoulder and smiled as she guided the ship backwards out of the hangar. Smith leaned on the backs of their seats, watching as they slipped out and under the massive First Order destroyer. In the distance, he could see the pinwheeling squad of X-wings racing ahead of a stream of TIE fighters. 

“Glad to see you, commander,” Zo said as she flipped switches and guided the ship into a steep drop. Her numerous bracelets jingled with the motion.

“Thanks, Zo.” They slapped hands, grinning.

“Sit down, I’ll even fly you home.”  Zo pulled a headset on over her brightly colored hair, a riot of rainbow waves.

“Yeah, he’s up and moving… no. I haven’t. When we get back, yeah?” Trott glanced up from the flight deck when Smith’s hand brushed over the back of his head, the tight braid and shaved sides of his hair. Trott smiled finally, the first time since he’d come through the cell door to rescue Smith. Smith kissed the top of Trott’s head before he sat back, feeling such boundless relief in that reassurance. It finally felt like they’d really be okay.

In one of the rear seats, RS-8891 fastened his seat belt. Smith almost laughed, because he’d never seen anyone actually use those. But the somber expression on the man’s face stopped him. RS-8891 cradled the blaster loosely in his hands, watching the ships and the streaks of fire against the deep black of space. For a moment, Smith just watched him, studying the line of his jaw with days of stubble, the fading bruises on his cheek. He wondered what the man could possibly be thinking in this moment.

“Hang on,” Zo muttered as the ship corkscrewed away the guns firing at them. “Just need to get some space here and we’re home bound.”

“Don’t you let these bastards scratch up my ship,” Smith teased, settling back in his seat. They rolled hard, speeding away from the approaching fighters. 

“No promises, commander” said Zo with a little laugh. They swooped and dodged, punching past the destroyer towards open space. Smith let himself relax a little. Zo was a good pilot. He trusted her, even if letting someone else fly his ship made him feel a bit nervous. 

“Clear to run, see you at home,” Trott said. Smith could hear the faint static of the response from the rest of the squad. Zo cheered as she slapped the hyperdrive control.

“Let’s goooooo,” she sang out. The stars blurred and Smith felt the glorious sense of freedom. The ship hurtled away from the First Order.

It did feel weird not to be in the pilot’s chair. His hands gripped at the arm rests. Smith breathed out, feeling a bone deep weariness. He felt as sore as if he’d been out climbing or something else ridiculously physical. His arms ached from the injections as well, and the weird backwash of whatever drugs lingered in his system.

“Trott,” Smith said plaintively. Turning in his seat, Trott raised his eyebrows. Beside him Zo relaxed, stretching her arms over her head.

“I don’t know what all they gave me, but I feel like shit,” said Smith.

“I’ll get the med kit,” Trott said, pulling off the headset and clambering out of his seat. Smith sighed and rolled his head to look at the man next to him.

“Hey,” Smith said softly. He had to repeat the word to get RS-8891’s attention. The man shifted in his seat, looking at Smith with those bright blue eyes.

“You okay?” asked Smith.

“I’m okay,” he said.

“You don’t look so hot,” Smith pressed. RS-8891 shrugged and grimaced.

“They fuck you up too? With the droid?” 

RS-8891 opened his mouth, and closed it. He nodded.

Trott crouched between their seats, rifling through a small bag. 

“You really should keep a better kit here, Smith, this is mostly useless…”

“Look, just give me something for the headache til we get home.” 

Trott sighed and slapped a couple of tablets into Smith’s hand, and then a bottle of water. While Smith noisily swallowed, Trott shifted to look at RS-8891.

“What about you?” 

Smith could see the man press himself back in his seat, that same fear from when he’d first seen Trott. It made him both curious and sad. He wondered what could possibly be going through his mind. Clearly he knew something of the Jedi, or he wouldn’t react this way. Trott did look pretty intimidating in the moment. Smith wanted to tug on his braid, tell him to tone down the fierce stare.

“It’s alright, Trott’s not going to hurt you.” He smiled as reassuringly as he could. 

“You’re injured,” Trott said and it was a statement instead of a question. RS-8891 licked his lips, chapped and cracked. Smith passed the water to RS-8891, who took a sparing drink and handed the bottle back.

“Yeah,” RS-8891 admitted reluctantly. 

“Let’s see how bad it is.”

RS-8891 looked like he wanted to refuse. 

“Trott’s not really a medic, but he likes to play doctor-”

“Oh shut up, Smith.” Trott huffed, but his exasperation came with a smile. “Look, if you’re in pain, we can do something at least until we get to a real med unit, and not someone’s half assed ship kit.”

“I can keep going,” RS-8891 said quietly. He looked down at the blaster pistol in his hand as if he had only just now remembered it. Carefully, he held it by the barrel and offered it to Smith. 

“I just don’t want to die.” RS-8891 looked at him as Smith tucked the weapon into the seatback pocket. “I don’t know what you’re going to do with me, but-” He stopped, shivering. “I can’t go back to the Order.”

“You don’t have to,” Smith said. “Right, Trott?” 

“That’s true,” Trott agreed. He watched RS-8891 closely, and Smith knew he was itching to find out how badly the man was hurt. For all that Trott was a formidable fighter, Smith sometimes thought he missed his calling. Trott should have been a medic. 

“We definitely need to find you some boots,” Smith said, trying to make it sound casual. “Can’t go walking around barefoot, you’ll be miserable.”

Trott glanced down, and his eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he took in the bruising shading up from the soles of RS-8891’s feet along with the myriad scratches and welts.

“At least let me check you over,” Trott said, hunting in the bag. He pulled out a small tablet and powered it up. RS-8891 shuddered at Trott’s hand on his arm, but didn’t pull away.

“Alright,” Trott soothed. “Barely a scratch, I promise nothing like whatever the fuck that droid was doing.” He pricked RS-8891’s finger, a tiny dark bead of blood that slowly rolled into the tip of the lancet. RS-8891 closed his eyes, wincing.

“Some kind of medical droid, I think,” Smith said moodily. “That jackass you killed in my cell kept having to override its programming.”

“Brinlew’s dead?” asked RS-8891.

“Very,” Smith said.

“Good.” RS-8891 opened his eyes, and nodded. He looked terribly tired.

Trott studied the tablet with concentration, and looked back up at RS-8891.

“Give him that water, Smith. Where do you hide the snacks?”

“What snacks?”

“I know you keep food on your ship,” Trott muttered. Smith protested, half laughing. 

“I found a whole packet of crisps under the seat,” Zo offered. Trott leaned forward between the pilot seats to grab them.

“Well, better than nothing,” he sighed. “Look, you need to eat something but slow. When was the last time you had food?”

“I’m not sure.” RS-8891 took the packet of crisps. They were Smith’s favorite flavor, vinegar. He could see RS-8891’s hands shake, the packet wavering.

“Were they not sending you the same boring plate of food every day?” Smith asked. RS-8891 shook his head as he carefully ate a single crisp, and then another one. Smith felt bad about all the time he’d spent leaning against the wall complaining about unsalted vegetables and dry bread.

“They brought in some food, first day or two. Then it stopped, after- I think just to make it seem like time wasn’t passing.” RS-8891 ate another crisp. Smith wondered how he could possibly be so controlled about it. The man had to be starving. He was ravenous, and he had eaten sometime today.

“How long has it been, Trott?” asked Smith. He smiled when RS-8891 held out the packet, grabbing a handful of crisps and shoveling them in his mouth. “This tastes so fucking good.”

“Seven days,” answered Trott, tapping at the tablet. He stuffed it back in the med bag. Smith crunched noisily on the crisps, eyes closed in pleasure.

“Seven days,” RS-8891 said thoughtfully. 

“Drink,” Trott demanded. “You’re in bad shape, are all the Order’s soldiers anemic?”

RS-8891 shook his head, taking a long drink of water. 

“Take these.” Trott handed him a couple capsules. “Just some painkillers, we’ll have to wait until we land to fix whatever else.”

Obediently, RS-8891 swallowed them. Within a few minutes, he closed his eyes and dropped into sleep. Gently, Trott took the water bottle from his slack grip.

“Did you drug him?” Smith frowned, watching.

“No, I didn’t,” Trott said. “God knows what they pumped into you two, I’m not risking that. I think he’s so exhausted from trying to hold it together that the minute something took the pain away, he just passed right out.”

“Poor bastard.” Smith ate another one of the crisps. “I heard him screaming through the wall. No idea what they were doing.”

“What’s the deal with this stormtrooper?” Trott asked. “Why did you have to take him?” He gently lifted one of the man’s feet to look at the bruises. 

“Stormtrooper?” Zo looked over her shoulder, wide eyed.

“When I got separated from everyone, I ran into him in a bombed outpost.” Smith watched RS-8891 sleep, while Trott meticulously bandage the broken skin on one of his feet. “He helped me try to escape, but the ship we stole got shot down.”

Trott looked serious. “He could be a spy.”

“He’s not a spy!” Smith said indignantly. “He’s some scared kid who was left for dead in the field who didn’t want to die.” 

“I’ve never seen a stormtrooper,” Zo said curiously. “Didn’t they used to be clones?”

“I don’t think this one is. They’re marked, he’s got some kind of identification tattooed into his neck.” He did look alarmingly young, younger even than some of the pilots in Smith’s wing. In his sleep, he shivered and jerked in the grip of some dream. Smith hoped it wasn’t about the cell.

“Well, they’ll want to question him.” Trott sat back on his heels. “I don’t know what General Nano is going to say about us bringing home a First Order stormtrooper.”

“What she should do is thank the poor bastard for trying to help me,” Smith grumbled. “Which is what you should be doing, too.”

“You trust so easily, Smith.”

“Have I ever been wrong?”

“That time in that bar-”

“That!” Smith exclaimed. “Are you still holding that over my head?”

“You nearly got us both killed!”

“Nearly, but not!” Smith laughed. He leaned forward to put his arms around Trott’s shoulders. Trott gripped his wrist, rubbing his thumb over the back of Smith’s hand.

“Are you two going to passionately make out now?” asked Zo, twisting in her seat. “Celebrate your escape with some triumphant sexy times?”

“What?” Smith and Trott asked in unison.

“I was reading that novel you had under the seat with your snacks.” Zo held up the battered book, with its tawdry cover of a shirtless man chained to a wall. “That happens when the hero is rescued from the Hutt dungeon. Let me find the page-”

Trott groaned. Smith buried his face in Trott’s neck, grinning. It felt good to be going home at last.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some NSFW action at the end of this one, because it really isn't a story from me without at least one blow job.
> 
> The next couple chapters need some more serious editing/writing time, so it may be a couple weeks before they are ready. But here's a much gentler chapter than the first one to tide you over.

RS-8891 blinked, and turned his head to one side. The lights swum in his vision, and he caught a glimpse of the grey wall and a medical droid hovering beside the bed. Despair punched him in the gut. He closed his eyes tightly, swallowing a sound. Panic surged, that the entire hazy memory of escaping his cell might have been a hallucination or maybe some sick, twisted game they’d played with him. Maybe he was dead and it was all some terrible nightmare.

The sound of a voice outside snapped him into fearful wakefulness. RS-8891 struggled to sit up, wondering why he was wearing a soft linen robe. The droid booped a musical warning tone, the panel showing his heart beat turning into a jagged line. Terror filled him, the blind fear to run from whatever was coming. He struggled, fingers scrabbling at the IV in his arm under a fine wrapping of gauze. Whimpering, RS-8891 tried to free himself from the line and climb out of the bed.

The door opened with a quiet snick, and RS-8891 froze. He stared down at his arm and tried to control his breathing.

“You’re awake!” The cheerful voice startled him, and when he raised his gaze he saw the grinning rebel pilot. Smith’s face fell when he took in RS-8891’s expression and the beeping droid. Smith shoved his tray onto the table by the wall and crossed the room in a quick stride.

“Hey, hey, what is it?” He sat on the edge of the bed, catching RS-8891’s hand with his own. “Are you hurting? Do you need me to get someone in here?”

“Where am I?” RS-8891 asked, his voice rough.

“The medical wing of a rebel base,” Smith answered carefully. He put one hand on RS-8891’s arm. “You’re probably the very first person from the Order to ever see it, actually. So, uh, congratulations on that.”

Gradually the heart rate on the monitor slowed down, and RS-8891 let himself take a shaky breath. His temples ached.

“It’s okay,” Smith said. He rubbed a gentle circle on RS-8891’s shoulder, an unexpected gesture. RS-8891 felt an unaccustomed lump in his throat. It reminded him of his squad, his unit left behind, people he would never see again.

Beside them, the droid trilled a mournful little sound.

“It’s okay, he’s just had a bit of a shock waking up in a strange place,” Smith told the droid. “You don’t need to call the doctor.”

RS-8891 looked around the room, noticing now it lacked the sleek impersonal nature of everything in the First Order. His fingers rubbed over the bandage at his elbow, and he studied the fading marks in his skin.

“I know having another needle in you is probably horrible, but you were in pretty bad shape by the time we got back,” Smith continued. “They had to give you a blood transfusion, and keep you hydrated.” He shooed the droid back and pulled a chair up to the side of the bed.

“I don’t remember.” RS-8891 didn’t. He remembered drinking some water on the ship, and then nothing.

“Trott couldn’t get you to wake back up when we landed. We were pretty worried.”

RS-8891 shook his head. It felt surreal. He kept expecting to wake up, or to find out this was some trick. Maybe he was hallucinating. It felt so real though. He ran his fingers over the bandage, the sheets on the bed.

“Do you want to try eating something?” Smith gestured at the tray full of food. “I was just grabbing some lunch, thought I would come keep you company.”

“What happens to me?” RS-8891 asked instead.

“They’ve treated all your injuries, and they’re just keeping you in here until they’re sure you’re okay.” Smith glanced at the medical droid with it’s colorful display of numbers and lines.. “You had some fractures, but they should be better - we have a pretty good medical crew.”

RS-8891 nodded, absorbing the information. Experimentally he rotated his foot. The grinding pain there was gone. Even his ribs didn’t ache every time he took a deep breath. He still felt sore, and didn’t want to look at his skin. But the difference was marked. Was it drugs, or actual healing? He didn’t know.

“After that?” he asked. His throat felt rough, but not painful.

“Well, I guess when you’re better, some of the generals are going to want to ask you some questions when the doctors clear you.”

“Interrogations.”

“Nothing like that.” Smith looked almost angry. “Just questions, and you don’t have to answer. No one will hurt you for it. That’s not what we do.”

“They tell us it is better to die than be captured by the rebel troops,” RS-8891 said carefully. He wondered what he’d done to himself.

“Look,” Smith said heavily. “Do you remember meeting, out there in the battle? You asked me not to kill you, said you were tired of the fighting and the dying.”

“Yes.” RS-8891 remembered that, the dizzy terror of staring down a blaster, Smith’s surprised face.

“I don’t want to kill anyone I don’t have to kill. I didn’t want to kill you. And we don’t torture people here, that’s not what we’re about.”

RS-8891 looked over at Smith, who leaned forward with his elbows on the edge of the bed. He frowned, looking pensive and unhappy. His unruly hair, glinting with red and gold, fell over his forehead. The rebels all seemed to have so much long hair. It was strange. RS-8891 had never thought about it before, that some people might keep their hair long on purpose. It wouldn’t be comfortable under a helmet.

When Smith glanced back at him, RS-8891 noticed his eyes were a changeable, shifting blue that could be grey. He studied them, the way they crinkled at the corners, the dark lashes. He couldn’t tell if they were telling the truth. He was too unfamiliar.

“I’ll get someone to take out your IV, and you can have a shower, yeah?” Smith offered. He hopped up before RS-8891 answered, and slipped out the door.

 

* * *

 

RS-8891 stood in front of the mirror in the small bathroom. It was strangely private compared to what he was used to, no crowds of other troopers moving quickly to clean up and get out. He studied his naked reflection. The bite marks faded, leaving his skin faintly mottled in places with the shadows. His feet were no longer swollen, leaving only brown bruises. The ones on his ribs and back were still dark, purple and green shadows from the beatings. A bruise still lingered on his cheek, a last reminder of Brinlew.

Gently, he touched the blistered, healing marks on his chest. The burns were livid against his pale skin. They itched and ached, lingering pain in his chest and legs. The cold water of the shower helped sooth the sensation. He let himself linger there, water running over his head. RS-8891 had never experienced the luxury of being able to control the length of his shower. In the barracks they worked on timers, designed to move bodies in and out efficiently. People would talk about how some showers seemed to run longer, would swear up and down one block was shorted almost a whole minute. He touched his fingertips to the wall, thinking about four minute showers that were sometimes hot and sometimes cold.

Slowly and carefully he dried himself and dressed again. The soft linen pants and robe felt almost too light, no protection at all. He wrapped the belt around his waist, trying to find a way to fasten it neatly. He’d never worn clothes like these. They were plain, but somehow didn’t have the utilitarian sameness of what he knew. He wished he could bandage himself, cover up his wounds, put on armor again. It felt so strange to be without it.

RS-8891 stopped short at the sight of the Jedi sitting in the chair beside his bed. Trott looked slightly less threatening without the lightsaber, in a dark brown tunic and trousers. His hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, less severe than before. RS-8891 thought of Marha, and the stumps of his arms.

Taking a deep breath, RS-8891 stood up a little straighter and clasped his wrist with one hand behind his back. The fight or flight impulse roared in his brain and he struggled to control himself.

“You look better,” Trott said. He looked RS-8891 up and down, seemingly curious.

“I am.” RS-8891 shifted on his feet, quelling the nervous feeling in his stomach. “I’m ready to begin whenever you decide.”

“Begin?”

“You’re here to question me.” RS-8891 met his eyes. He could do this, he thought. He’d heard stories, about the Jedi. They all did. If they were even a fraction as powerful as the Sith in the ranks of the First Order, there was no defense. Everyone knew a Force user could crack your mind open as easy as breathing. They were terrifying. They would have every reason to hate him.

“No,” Trott said with a little shake of his head. “I certainly have a lot of questions, but that’s not why I’m here.”

“You don’t have to play this game,” RS-8891 said. He hoped it didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. “I know what has to happen now. I’m ready.”

Trott opened his mouth, frowning. Before he could say anything, the door clicked open.

“Hey, you’re up!” Smith grinned brightly. He ushered in a woman. She was short, much shorter than Smith and RS-8891 couldn’t help but stare. Her dark hair was streaked with bright red, and her almond shaped eyes were very dark. She was dressed much like Smith, tight pants and a leather jacket over a pale shirt.

“I’m Nano.” She held out her hand, clearly expecting him to introduce himself. RS-8891 didn’t know what to do. Trott rose from the chair, looking curiously at them.

“RS-8891, squad 512 in the Fifth legion.” Carefully, Ross extended his hand. Nano’s hand fit into his own, smaller and more golden.

“Nano and I used to fly together sometimes,” Smith said by way of explanation. RS-8891 was certain this was just an excuse, that whoever she was had to be more important than that.

“Do you all have names that are initials and numbers, or do you have something less officual you use?” Nano asked, looking up at RS-8891.

“Sometimes you earn another name.” He wondered why she would ask, if it would be another betrayal to speak about the private names they used for each other, the nicknames, or how a soldier promoted in the ranks earned a name the officers used. He wasn’t used to thinking like this. They didn’t really train to deal with questions. Death was preferable according to their instructors.

“Would you like us to call you RS-8891? Or something else?”

“I don’t- I...” RS-8891 paused. He didn’t quite know what to say. He shrugged helplessly.

“You don’t have to decide right away.” Nano smiled, and glanced over her shoulder where Trott watched her with a thoughtful expression. “You guys want to go pick up some dinner at the cafeteria, come back in a bit?”

“Are you-” began Trott.

“Come on Trott, I heard there would be cookies this afternoon!” Smith gleefully slung an arm over his shoulder. “We’ll bring you something, yeah?”

“Do that.” Nano waved them away. “See you later, after dinner.”

Trott gave them one last searching glance as Smith dragged him out the door, talking animatedly about food. RS-8891 had never met anyone who could be so consistently excited about eating. In the hallway outside, Smith was loudly promising cookies to someone else.

“Those dorks,” Nano muttered. There was an unmistakable fondness in her voice. She looked back at RS-8891.

“Do you want to sit down?” She gestured at the couple chairs Smith had dragged in the other day.

“That’s not necessary.”

“No, but it is more comfortable.”

“My comfort isn’t a priority,” RS-8891 said without thinking. “You’re here to begin the interrogations, aren’t you? I should stand then.” He wondered why he was telling her how to do her job. Maybe this was another test.

She sighed, and took a seat. RS-8891 straightened himself, clasping his hands behind his back again. He might be a traitor in the eyes of the First Order, but he would not be a disgrace to the men and women who trained him.

“You should really sit down,” she finally said when the silence stretched on too long. “You’re recovering well, but we’re still concerned.”

He did still feel tired too easily. RS-8891 wondered what it was. Even spending two days doing nothing in this room, he found himself exhausted. Sleep didn’t come easy at night though. It was too quiet. RS-8891 never thought he would miss sleeping beside RS-3536 and RS-8082.

“Please?” Nano gestured at the other chair. “Or the bed. Or the floor even if that makes you happy, just sit.”

“Is it on purpose, trying to make your side seem like the opposite of the First Order?” RS-8891 asked as he gingerly sat down in the second chair.

“How do you mean?”

“The interest in my comfort, the luxury of this cell.”

“Number one, this is not a cell. Your door isn’t locked, and you’re not a prisoner-”

RS-8891 laughed, a bit bitterly. Nano sighed, but continued.

“Number two, we are kind of the opposite already, being the resistance.” Nano folded her legs up to sit cross legged in the chair, a studied show of casualness that seemed false to him. “So I guess so. And I’m guessing maybe you don’t love the First Order as much as you thought you did.”

“I didn’t want to die,” RS-8891 said simply. “I told the officers who questioned me that. It is the truth. There was no other motivation to it than the purely selfish.”

“That I can believe.” Nano looked at him. “And now that you’re here?”

“What?”

“Is there any other motivation for you, besides surviving?”

He considered it, turning the thought over and over. RS-8891 had never questioned his loyalties to the First Order. Even in the chaotic battlefield, helping Smith find a way out, he hadn’t quite considered it a betrayal. It was though. He had violated all the training, broken every command, and assisted the enemy. Why he did it mattered less than the fact of it happening.

“I deserved it,” RS-8891 slowly, the realization sinking into his chest like a weight.

“What?”

“I was so angry, thinking they were doing it just to be cruel or because they enjoyed it. But I deserved to be interrogated. I deserved to be punished. I betrayed my squad, the entire command, and now I’ve killed an officer…” RS-8891 trailed off, thinking of his crimes. The reality of what he’d done sank in, a crushing weight.

“No one deserves to be tortured,” Nano said, her voice soft. “Even the First Order’s laws say so.”

“But I am what they said.” RS-8891 rubbed at the inside of his arm. “I am a traitor.”

“Maybe,” Nano sighed. “But you left an unjust system, and saved a man’s life. Surely that counts for something.”

“And probably doomed who knows how many of my comrades to die during the escape…” RS-8891 swallowed the unpleasant sensation in his throat. The miserable surety that he had done something terrible in a moment of weakness filled him. He deserved it, he told himself. He deserved all the suffering he’d endured so far, and whatever else was in store for him.

“I’ll tell you whatever it is you want to know, and then you’ll execute me.” RS-8891 lifted his gaze to meet Nano’s. She flinched at the words, and it took a moment for her to find her voice.

“We’re not going to execute you,” Nano said.

“If you don’t, the First Order will.” His betrayals were so numerous that he supposed it would be a public execution. An instructive moment for the other troops to watch, to witness the consequences. RS-8891 had been to such spectacles himself.

“You’re overlooking the numerous other options you have now-”

“I deserve to die,” RS-8891 said, his voice flat. “I am a traitor.” Nano looked at him, and shook her head again.

“You’re alive, RS-8891, and you’re going to stay that way because this conflict claims too many lives for me to want to kill you.” Nano unfolded her legs to stand. She paced the room, clearly perturbed by something.

RS-8891 caught himself worrying at the bandage on his arm, and placed his hands on his knees. He startled when Nano leaned forward to touch his wrist.

“What happened to you?” She asked, and he wondered if the concern and curiosity were genuine or calculated.

“Interrogation,” he answered, his tone clipped and dry.

“I can tell from the bruises someone hit you, but this…” Her fingers traced one of the welts on the back of his hand. RS-8891 pulled away. The contact unsettled him.

“Of course you don’t have to tell me the details of it, if you don’t want.” Nano withdrew, sitting back in the other chair. “But it might help, to talk about it.”

“Help?” RS-8891 asked, his voice both incredulous and weary.

“The mind doesn’t always heal at the same speed as the body.”

“I’m fine.”

“It would also help others, to know what they should be prepared for.”

RS-8891 frowned, looking at Nano again.

“You have your pilot, I’m sure he can tell you whatever you want to know about it.” They sat there in silence for a bit, and RS-8891 picked at his bandage.

“What I find odd about this is how much worse it seems to have been for you,” Nano said. “He got off pretty light, compared to whatever happened here.” She leaned forward, seemingly unable to resist trying to examine him.

“I don’t know anything about it.” Ross shied away from her attempt to touch his arm again. Self conscious, he wished for longer sleeves to hide himself.

“Why would they torture you more?” She mused.

“I really don’t know,” RS-8891 repeated, feeling anxious. Her repeated questions reminded him too much of Brinlew’s. He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to calm himself. It took so much effort not to shake, to try to hold himself still.

“Please, RS-8891,” Nano said, leaning forward. “Anything you can tell us would help.”

“I- no, this is just. No. There’s nothing to say.”  He looked away and took a deep, steadying breath.

“We have some people in medical who are trained-”

“No,” RS-8891 said. “No.”

“Alright.” Nano looked disappointed, running a hand through her hair.

“What happens to me?” RS-8891 asked. He stared at the grey walls, and wondered if every prison cell looked like a medical room or vice versa.

“We’ll figure something out, yeah?” Nano gave him a smile. RS-8891 didn’t know if that was a good thing. “What did you do when you weren’t soldiering?”

“I was assigned to the hangar crew, as a mechanic.”

“Really?” Nano brightened, driving the conversation to safer ground.

RS-8891 found himself talking about ships, and it was easier to talk about them rather than himself. At this point he couldn’t bring himself to care if he was revealing information he shouldn’t. By the time Nano left, he was exhausted from so much talking and his throat felt dry. Too numb to care if it was safe or not, he crawled back into bed and pulled the pillow over his head.

 

* * *

 

Trott took a deep breath, and let it go slowly. He held Smith’s head to his chest, neck bent so his nose brushed Smith’s messy hair. They were lying in the nook in their home, the raised platform secluded just behind the fireplace. It was one of Trott’s favorite things, this private little spot. The window held thick, patterned squares of glass. During the summer, the light shone in stripes of color on the books in the built in shelves. It was full of cushions, a good place to read or nap or retreat to when the world felt overwhelming.

They’d ended up here instead of the table or even the bed, because Smith was exhausted despite pretending otherwise. Sitting up felt like too much effort, and climbing the stairs to bed vastly more so. The aches and pains were mostly gone, his injuries healing, and the medical team had flushed out most everything that the First Order’s droid left swimming around in his blood. But he was tired, and sore, and more than anything he wanted the comfort of Trott’s arms in a familiar space.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Trott asked finally. They hadn’t really, the first night. Smith spent most of it in the medical bay, getting checked out. Afterwards he’d slept a good long time.

“I told Nano and the others everything at the debriefing,” Smith mumbled. “You were there.” He snuggled into Trott as if he was another pillow, one knee drawn up and draped over Trott’s legs.

“Yes, but that’s not quite what I meant.” Trott’s fingers moved through his hair, combing it back from his forehead. Smith closed his eyes, listening to Trott’s heart beat.

“Then what?”

“That was all mission, not about you and how you feel.”

“Well, we prepared for it so I’d be okay, didn’t we?”

“It’s one thing to train for and talk about the possibility of being tortured, another to live through it.” Smith could hear the frown in his voice. He didn’t even have to look up to know Trott’s brows were drawn down, the crease between them saying volumes about his dissatisfaction.

“Well, it was way less fun, that’s for sure.”

“Smith…”

He sighed, squeezing Trott. Smith didn’t really want to dwell on it. Ideally, he’d like to sleep for about three days and wake up having forgotten most of it.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner,” Trott apologized. “It took some doing to get the right codes to trick the destroyer into letting us in, the decoy ship and all.”

“I was starting to think maybe the higher ups had written me off.” Smith tried to make it sound like a joke. But that uneasy fear had plagued him in his dark moments, and it bled into his voice.

“You know nothing in this universe could stop me from coming to get you,” Trott said, his voice unexpectedly fierce.

“People die in wars, Trott.”

“You weren’t dead,” Trott said. “I could feel you.”

“With the Force?” Smith teased, trying to lighten the mood. “Couldn’t you have given me a force hand job so I wasn’t so lonely in there?”

“That’s not how the Force works,” Trott groaned. But he laughed, and it made Smith glad. He needed it, the normalcy of his life with Trott. Not that it was really normal. They fought in the rebellion that never really ended, and Trott was one of the very few Jedi left in the galaxy. Life was strange enough. But here, right now, this felt as normal and safe as anything really could be. He was with the man he loved, safe and sound. Smith laid there, listening to Trott’s heart beat with steady surety.

“It was incredibly boring at first, not as scary as you might think,” he said after a long silence broken only by the sound of the rain outside, and the distant crack of thunder. “Days of not seeing anyone. Then it was the poor bastard in the cell next to mine, screaming and begging for it to stop. That was pretty awful.”

Smith felt Trott’s hand slow, almost stop drawing slow spirals on his shoulder. He took a deep breath and continued.

“The guy in the cell with me, he was enjoying what he was doing.” Smith grimaced at the memory.

“Nothing surprises me about the First Order anymore,” Trott said.

“I knew it was coming, though. The things we practiced, they helped.” Smith lifted himself up on his elbow to look at Trott. “It really did.”

“Good.” Trott still looked faintly worried.

“Stop frowning.” Smith smoothed Trott’s brow with his finger tips, and tapped his nose. “I’m alive, in one piece. And right here with you.” He leaned forward and kissed Trott.

“Look, you really don’t want me to tell you more than what you saw,” Smith reasoned. “I know you. It will stick in your head and that’s all you’ll see.”

“Don’t treat me like I’m someone you have to protect,” Trott said defensively.

“I’m not. I just don’t want to talk about it, Trott. Please.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, and Trott finally heaved a sigh.

“Okay,” he relented. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” Smith murmured. He kissed Trott again, slow and lingering. With one hand, he tugged Trott’s hair loose from its tie. It gleamed, the strands like burnished silk. Smith sometimes teased Trott about the vanity of keeping such long beautiful hair but he loved the rich brown color with the hint of gold in the light, and the softness of it against his cheek.

“Do you want to go to bed?” Trott asked. He let his eyes close, enjoying Smith’s hand in his hair. It made Smith glad to see it, the way the tension in his face dissipated at the touch. He combed his fingers through Trott’s hair, resisting the urge to twirl it into snarls. Sometimes Trott let him brush it out, even while Smith kept threatening to learn how to braid it up in fancy old Empire styles.

“I’m just going to fall asleep on you here, probably,” Smith answered. “But we could make out some first.”

Trott laughed at that, and pulled Smith closer to kiss him until he fell asleep listening to the sound of the rain and the comfortable warmth of Trott beside him.

 

* * *

 

General Nano sat at the table, thoughtfully stirring her coffee. Trott and Smith were there, along with a couple other members of the command team. Sips, because they included the Jedi in most all of their planning. Lomadia, one of the commanders of the resistance, and Angor, their commander of information and spies. The table was littered with chips and data crystals, reports from various missions.

“I am very concerned about our stormtrooper,” Nano began.

Smith opened his mouth to interrupt, already defensive. She raised her hand. In the silence, the sounds of the command center outside were faintly audible, the chatter of voices and footsteps, the ever present hum of so much machinery.

“Not because I think he’s a spy or a danger to us. But he’s quite damaged.”

“Medical says he’ll be fine, there’s no lasting damage from his injuries,” Trott said. “He hasn’t explained how they happened, aside from saying he was questioned several times.” Trott frowned, tapping his fingers on the tabletop with an uncharacteristic restlessness. Smith covered his hand, gripping it tightly.

“Whatever happened to him went on for days,” Smith said quietly. “I don’t blame him for not wanting to relive it.” His fingers stroked Trott’s palm, drawing zig zags from his fingers to his wrist.

“I’m not sure he’s really convinced that we’re not going to torture and execute him,” Nano said. “He seems to think this is some long con, and the moment he starts trusting us we’ll pull down the curtain to reveal it was all a trap.”

“He trusted us enough to escape,” Smith mused.

“Because he was terrified of dying,” Lomadia pointed out.

“And terrified of the Jedi,” Sips added. He leaned back in his seat, coffee in one hand and a pastry in the other. The sugary crumbs sprinkled the front of his robe, and Sips licked the sweet cream filling off his fingers. Sips was a solid contrast to Trott, as laid back as Trott was serious. In his brightly patterned tunic and shorts, he looked like a vacationer who accidentally stumbled into a meeting. Especially sitting beside Lomadia in her crisp blue uniform, and Trott in his neat, simple clothes.

“That too. Which does tell us something. Just because we haven’t seen them in the field in some time doesn’t mean there aren’t Sith working with the First Order.”

“You already knew that,” Sips said dismissively. “Just because they’re not front and center doesn’t mean they have retired. They’re still there.” An uneasy silence followed Sips’ words. Smith bounced one leg under the table, feeling restless. Angor cleared his throat, spinning a data chip on the table.

“There’s not much RS-8891 can tell us,” said Angor. “Tactically speaking, I mean.”

“The First Order won’t buy him back from us for anything as he’s just a foot soldier,” Nano mused. Across the table, Smith made a strangled noise. She looked at him, her gaze level and impenetrable.

“Not to mention that sending him back would certainly end in more torture and probably his death,” she continued. “Neither of which we want.”

“So what are we doing with him?” Lomadia sighed.

“How many people have ever even spoken to a stormtrooper? Most of us assume they are clones still. My mother is probably the only person I know aside from this room who has ever encountered them outside a battle.”  Nano leaned forward on the table, resting her elbows on the battered surface. There were chips here and there in the table, from accidents, from heated arguments. But it was polished and smooth through the center, aside from one long scratch just off the center.

“So there’s an opportunity here, one we’ve never really had,” said Nano. “To know who and what the First Order’s soldiers are from the inside, and how we might bring more of them to our side.”

“Are you serious?” Lomadia looked perturbed by the idea. Angor stroked his beard, looking thoughtful.

“We are never going to equal the economic or military power of the First Order, not as things stand now,” said Angor. “We can’t win a pitched war. So we have to fight a different war, one that includes undermining the First Order from within.”

“The war for hearts and minds,” Sips said sarcastically as he brushed away more crumbs. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Listen, we’ve done some incredible work on some of the planets-” said Angor with some asperity.

“So here we have someone born into the Order’s ranks,” interrupted Nano. “Raised entirely in their propaganda machine. If we convince him, we might learn how we can convince others within the First Order itself, not just civilians. And we’re going to need to either fracture or undermine their military strength if we have any hope in the long run.”

Lomadia put one hand flat on the table, fingers spread. Her knuckles were scarred, the lines faded pink.

“If you do this, you’re risking a lot,” she said. “I hope you are right.”

Nano sat back in her seat, looking around the table at her assembled advisors and commanders.

“So what, we’re going to stick him in the dorms with the rest of the mechanics?” Lomadia asked.  “Or the pilots? I don’t see that ending well. He’s going to have trouble fitting in with free people.”

“No.” Nano shook her head. The red dyed tips of her hair glinted in the light off the table. “That’s where Smith and Trott come in.”

“Absolutely not,” Trott said, over the sound of Smith’s surprised exclamation.

“He already knows you, and he trusts you probably as much as he trusts anyone,” Nano said, looking directly at Smith.

“And he’s terrified of _me_ , so I don’t think you gain anything by that-” Trott exclaimed.

“You want me to spy on him, to figure out how to turn their soldiers?” asked Smith, his brow furrowed.

“I want you to help him realize he’s more than just a tool of other men, that he has a choice,” Nano said. “That he can join the Resistance and be a force for good. He’s almost there, he just needs a little direction.”

“It’s a lot of effort for one man,” Lomadia sighed.

“We sent a squad of ships in to rescue one man,” Nano pointed out.

Smith leaned his chin into his hand, fingers tapping on the table.

“We were protecting valuable assets,” Lomadia said dubiously. “That was different. We knew what we could lose. He’s an unknown.”

“Is this because we’re living right at the end of the canyon with the good view?” Trott raised his eyebrows. “Do you want it back?”

“Oh come on Trott, you know that’s not something anyone begrudges you,” Nano said, shaking her head.

“I think you should do it,” Sips said unexpectedly. He sat up, looking more serious than usual, his breakfast forgotten.

“What?” Trott glared at him.

“Come on Trott, you need to work on your compassion anyhow.” Sips waggled his fingers with a grin at Trott’s irritable expression. “The Force compels you.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Sips, now is not the time to-”

“I’ll do it,” Smith said abruptly. He put his hands down on the table, cutting off Trott and Sips’ argument. Sips grinned wider, clearly pleased. Trott frowned heavily, a line between his brows, and sat back in his chair.

“Thank you,” Nano said, genuine relief in her voice. “We’ll discharge him from medical tomorrow, so you have some time to sort out the accommodations.” She rose from her seat, and everyone else followed suit. Nano squeezed Smith’s shoulder on the way out of the room.

When it was only Trott and Smith left, Trott whipped around to glare at Smith.

“Shouldn’t we have talked about this first?”

“It’s not like we don’t have room.”

“That’s not the point and you know it.”

“Trott,” Smith said sadly. “I have to do this.”

“Why, why do you have to do this? Don’t you already do enough things for the resistance?” Trott swore under his breath, pushing away from the table. He paced around the room moodily, looking upset and angry.

“It’s hardly a burden-”

“Oh, rehabilitating a stormtrooper in my home is hardly anything, I don’t know why I’m upset,” Trott said sarcastically.

“We all do what we have to do, what we believe is the right thing to do.” Smith tried to stay calm and philosophical about it.

“You do too much!” Trott exclaimed. “You fly mission after mission-”

“I won’t send my people out and just sit here!” Smith interrupted.

“You take on all these responsibilities and for what, more risk?” Trott continued wrathfully.

“No more risk than anyone else does.” Smith shrugged.

“You can’t act like this was nothing!” Trott burst out. “I nearly lost you!”

“But you didn’t!” Smith shouted back, taking a few steps after Trott.

“You never would have been in there if you hadn’t decided not to just shoot him,” Trott said viciously.

“Are you mad because I didn’t kill a man?” Smith asked incredulously. His voice rose, too loud in the small conference room.

“They tortured him too, Trott, _because he helped me_ _!_ In fact it was worse for him! So whatever you’re going to say about me being too reckless, I don’t want to hear it right now. I would think you’d have more sympathy for him, knowing-”

“Don’t you dare say it,” Trott snapped, blanching.

They stared at each other, tension vibrating in the air between them. Smith held out his hands.

“Come here,” he said, his voice soft. “Please?”

For a heart beat, Trott just stared. The anger drained out of him slowly, leaving only a wounded silence. Smith stepped forward and carefully wrapped his arms around Trott’s shoulders, pressing his face into Trott’s hair.

“I’m sorry,” Smith murmured. “I am.”

Reluctantly, Trott slid his arms around Smith’s waist to grip him tightly. His voice was muffled in Smith’s jacket.

“I’ve already lost too much, I won’t lose you too.”

“You aren’t going to lose me.” Smith closed his eyes, rocking them gently from side to side.

 

* * *

 

RS-8891 held the black clothes in his hands. He was used to not having much in the way of possessions. Most soldiers lived their entire lives with only a foot locker in the barracks, keeping only a few things along the way. He wondered what had become of his locker, and his squad.

The only pieces of his former life were the clothes he held. Someone had washed them and returned them, neatly folded. He wanted to put them on, but refrained. He would wear the clothes they’d provided, a simple shirt and pants in dark grey and blue. Someone had even found him a pair of boots, the dark leather worn soft in places. They didn’t fit as comfortably as his old boots did. RS-8891 wondered what happened to them, after the crash. It felt strange not to have a weapon.

He waited, standing at the foot of the bed. Nano had returned briefly to tell him that he’d be leaving this cell for somewhere else this morning. RS-8891 had not asked where. It didn’t matter, he told himself.

“Hey buddy.” Smith leaned in the doorway, slouching and casual in a way RS-8891 still wasn’t used to. “You ready to get out of here?”

“Why do you call me that?” RS-8891 asked instead.

“I don’t like calling you a number,” Smith said, a bit apologetically. “It feels so - impersonal. Droids have numbers for names, but not people so much. I can stop though, if it bothers you.”

RS-8891 shook his head.

“You are sort of starting your entire life over,” Smith pointed out. “If you wanted to change your name, you could.” He gestured for RS-8891 to follow him.

RS-8891 dismissed that shocking thought as they left the medical bay, and wound through a series of corridors. The base seemed to built right into the rock, and there were often bundles of cables strung along the walls. It was markedly different from the smooth metal corridors of a destroyer, or the orderly barracks he was used to inhabiting.

He stopped in surprise, staring out into the canyon. High overheard, a rocky cliff soared up to arch over them. The inside rim of the cliff was terraced upwards, worn stone carved into paths and stairs around the buildings. Sunlight washed the canyon out, barely restrained by the wispy clouds in a high blue sky.

“Thought you might like to see the outside a bit, since you’ve been cooped up the whole time you’ve been here.” Smith gestured towards the left, where the canyon walls widened  and it opened into a valley. RS-8891 stepped forward to lean on the stone wall, looking out at the bright daylight. The stone was banded in various reds, pale gold and grey. Low trees grew on the valley floor, their grey-green leaves soaking up the light and shading the edges of a wide river that wound along the canyon floor.

“Where are we?” RS-8891 finally asked.

“Little farming planet on the Outer Rim, about as far from the First Order as you can get,” Smith said. He smiled reassuringly at RS-8891’s dubious expression. “It’s so far out here it’s got a name like yours, just letters and numbers.”

They walked up the sloping terrace paths, and RS-8891 listened while Smith rattled off facts about the cliffs. He wasn’t terribly interested in the kinds of rocks, or how many people lived here, or how long it took to construct the carved stone and baked brick buildings that spread upwards to the high dome of rock. Mostly he took in the view, a dizzying slope down to the canyon floor and the wide swath of sky visible over the valley. As they climbed higher along the switchbacks, he watched some birds wheel in the updrafts from the canyon. It was quiet on the paths, only a handful of people passing them. Smith explained most people were working, indoors inside the cliff where the resistance was headquartered and in the hangar bays built further along the canyon. There was apparently even some agriculture, and a whole community further south of resistance friendly families and people.

“Some of these are more like dorms, for people who only stay a little while or just like living together,” Smith explained, pointing towards some of the larger buildings they passed.

“I never thought you would live so openly, right on the surface.” RS-8891 had never imagined how the resistance lived at all, aside from lessons during training.

“Well, living here means we’re pretty invisible unless you get right inside the canyon. The rock hides us pretty well.” Smith pointed out across the canyon. “And there’s shielding as well, it isn’t totally undefended. But everything’s made to blend into the landscape as much as possible.”

RS-8891 tipped his head up, looking at the ragged curve of stone. It was the unevenness, he decided. That was the strange element making everything seem so foreign. He was used to the plain angles and smooth curves of everything constructed by the First Order. There was something odd about so much unconstrained nature to his eye.

“We’re just up here, on the eastern edge, which Trott loves because of all the morning light. He’s a disgusting morning person.” Smith laughed easily, leading RS-8891 through a row of smaller buildings. They were high here, nearer the end of the canyon. The opposite wall sloped down into an ancient pile of rubble, boulders stacked haphazardly all the way down to the wide arc of the river and the green growth of the valley.

The terrace was lined with a row of apartments, separated by small stoops. Many of them had a second story, often with a balcony facing out into the canyon. RS-8891 thought it looked strangely luxurious, all the space. He realized now the man beside him, this rebel he so thoughtlessly aided, was someone of importance. No wonder the officers had tortured him so relentlessly over it. RS-8891 felt a moment of queasiness, acknowledging a new depth to his betrayal. He kept his expression blank, careful not to reveal too much of his turmoil. He wasn’t used to spending all his time without the concealment of his helmet, and it left him constantly on guard.

Smith bounded up to a green door at the far end of the terrace, in front of an apartment faced with blocks of the golden stone.

“Trott!” He shouted, opening the door. “Are you home?”

RS-8891 followed slowly, still clutching his black clothes. The wide windows on either side of the door let in the light to the open space, laid out to be a living area that reminded him slightly of the common room in the barracks. In one wall was a fireplace, a small bookshelf lined space in the front corner. Further back was a small kitchen lined with gleaming tiles, and stairs leading upwards.

“Is this where they want me to stay?” RS-8891 asked in surprise.

“I thought it might be easier, for you to stay with us.”

“Us?”

“Me and Trott,” Smith said, a slightly sheepish look on his face.

RS-8891 felt a wave of anxiety, the nervous urge to back up and go back to the cell in the medical bay.

“I just thought it might be easier, you coming here,” Smith explained hastily. “Living in one of the dorms might be too much, with all strangers, and here you could have some privacy but you wouldn’t be totally alone…” He trailed off, watching RS-8891 struggle to control his expression.

“Why?” RS-8891 finally asked. “Why would you…”

“Because you helped me,” Smith said, his voice firm. “You did something no one ever expected.”

“I’m a traitor, and part of your enemy,” RS-8891 countered sadly. “I’m not worth whatever this is.”

“At least come see the room, before you decide?” Smith impulsively reached for RS-8891’s hand, pulling him toward the stairs at the back of the apartment. The impulse to jerk away made RS-8891 tense, and he had to quell the urge to break and run. But he managed to stumble after Smith.

The second floor of the apartment was a small landing, with three doors and a high, angled ceiling. A long skylight helped brighten the room, keeping it from feeling too claustrophobic.

“Bathroom’s on this side.” Smith pushed open a door onto a room that seemed built right into the rock of the cliff. The overhead light illuminated the rough stone floor, and a large tub.

“And over here, the bedrooms.” Smith pushed on the right hand door. “This one is yours.”

RS-8891 stared into the room, vaguely overwhelmed by the idea he was meant to occupy this much space alone. It was larger than the cell, and full of light. The far wall seemed to be mostly window, a big floor to ceiling pane of glass next to another door and framed with pale blue curtains. The floor was wood, the boards polished to a golden sheen. A bed, surely meant for more than one person, and a single chair with a round table took up most of the space. An empty shelf stood against one wall, with cupboards, and there was a trunk at the foot of the bed. RS-8891 had never lived in a room like this, with so much space for a single person. Officers and much higher ranked members of the First Order’s armies could live like this, but not people like him.

“It feels a bit empty, I know. There’s some clothes, you’re tall enough to wear some of my stuff but we can get you some things of your own, stuff you want.” Smith picked up one of the pillows, tossing it in the air.

RS-8891 almost laughed at the idea that he should own anything, or that he should decide what to wear. But he stayed quiet, practicing keeping his face impassive. It was easier than trying to explain.

“We’ll be right next door, in the other.” Smith rapped on the wall, next to a large abstract picture, blue and green and yellow swathes of color.

“Did you have to give up your room for me?” RS-8891 asked.

“What? No, this was sort of a guest room or space if someone wanted to be alone. We’ve always used the other room as our bedroom.”

“Ah.” RS-8891 colored faintly, aware that he was very slowly putting together the obvious pieces. “So you’re… a couple.”

“Yeah.” Smith looked at him curiously. “Is it going to bother you? Wait, are people in the First Order not allowed to, you know, hook up?”

“Romantic relationships are strongly discouraged,” RS-8891 said, recalling the lessons and rattling them off without thinking. “Troopers are forbidden from engaging in romantic or sexual behavior with another trooper or member of command staff. All such activity should be immediately reported to a superior officer. Violations will result in reconditioning and punishment.” They learned the rules like a catechism, reciting them over and over until the knowledge was fixed.

“Eesh.” Smith grimaced. “That sounds terrible. Technically I don’t think I’m supposed to have a romantic relationship with anyone under my command, but Trott’s not really under anyone’s command so I think we’re alright.”

RS-8891 looked down, vaguely embarrassed. He knew perfectly well what it meant. There were officers who were partnered, and there were the lessons on what was and wasn’t acceptable behavior during training. It was just another casual reminder that life outside the First Order was strange and unpredictable. He tried to push away the thought of Smith and Trott locked in an embrace like the troopers he’d stumbled across in supply warehouse, or the furtive night time fumblings of the soldiers in their bunks.

“Ah, so aside from the awkwardness of knowing that I’m sleeping with Trott, what do you think?” Smith stepped into the room. “The bed’s comfy, and we have a kitchen downstairs though we eat a lot in the cafeteria in the base too. Oh, and there’s a little balcony, come here!” Smith tugged at the door at the opposite end of the room. He stepped out onto the balcony, and RS-8891 followed to stand on the threshold. He felt disoriented by the vastness before him, the pale light and the beautiful colors of the landscape. It was pretty, even more so because if he looked just right there wasn’t a sign of habitation at all. Just rock and trees and sky, stretching to a far horizon.

“I think it would be nicer to watch the sunset rather than sunrise, but Trott disagrees.” Smith nudged one of the chairs. “He likes the quiet of living at this end of the base. We’ll have to get another chair, for you.”

“It’s not necessary,” RS-8891 said automatically. He stepped backwards into the room, turning away from the landscape. He set his clothing carefully on the small trunk at the foot of the bed, and picked up one of the burgundy pillows. It was very soft, covered with the same sort of linen from the med bay cell. He wasn’t sure he wanted to stay here, with the Jedi and the rebel pilot he’d helped. But he didn’t know where he might end up if he refused this offer, and RS-8891 felt overwhelmed by the foreignness of this place. He glanced up to find Smith watching him with a curious and hopeful expression.

“I will stay,” he said finally. He honestly didn’t know what else he could do.

“Great!” Smith grinned, his face lighting up. RS-8891 looked away, unsure what to think.

 

* * *

 

In the early evening, RS-8891 sat quietly at the table and ate. They’d skipped the noise and crush of the cafeteria he’d seen when Smith dragged him on a tour of the base. Instead Smith cooked a simple meal while Trott disappeared upstairs to bathe. RS-8891 was not blind to the tension. He suspected the Jedi wanted him here about as much as he wanted to be here. So he tried to keep himself quiet and telegraph his movements so as not to startle Trott with his presence. Smith doggedly tried to keep up the conversation, indefatigable with his light hearted grin. RS-8891 found himself a bit envious of it, whether it was genuine or armor. He concentrated on eating the noodles. It was actually quite good, with crunchy slices of something mixed into the tangy red sauce.  The noodles had a noticeable texture, firm and chewy. He’d never eaten any quite like them. When they had noodles in the barracks, they were cooked to a soft mush.

“You want some more?” Smith was already up, carrying his own bowl. RS-8891 nodded. Smith picked up his empty bowl, and leaned down to kiss the top of Trott’s head. “What about you?”

“Smith,” Trott said warningly, his eyes flicking towards RS-8891.

“Relax, he knows,” Smith said. “Besides, it’s not like I’m trying to bang you on the dinner table.”

Trott groaned and swatted at Smith, who hopped back just out of reach.

“Just bring me some more tea. Prick.”

RS-8891 kept his eyes down, avoiding Trott’s gaze. He found the Jedi too much of an unknown quantity. Instead he nibbled at the slices of fruit, bright yellow and orange. Something about the taste was faintly familiar. The resistance seemed to eat very well, compared to what he knew. He felt a pang at his disloyalty, enjoying this meal more than the ones he ate in the barracks with his fellow soldiers. It did taste very good though.

“Nano mentioned you trained as a mechanic,” Smith said, sliding another bowl in front of RS-8891. With a smile, he filled Trott’s cup again from the tea pot.

“Ship mechanic,” RS-8891 said.

“Why did you pick that?”

“I didn’t.” RS-8891 twirled his fork in the thick noodles. “That’s what I was assigned after the aptitude testing during training.”

“Huh.” Smith chewed thoughtfully, letting RS-8891 eat for a few moments. “Do you like it though?”

RS-8891 considered the question as he ate.

“I like putting the pieces together, making something work,” he said.

Trott watched them over the rim of the cup he held with both hands.

“You want to come with me tomorrow, down to the hangers?”

“Is that wise?” Trott asked.

“Trott, we’ve been over this-” Smith looked annoyed. Trott set his cup down, waving one hand dismissively.

“I’m not arguing he’s a spy or dangerous to have,” Trott said. “But you are going to have to introduce him and the moment you say his name, it marks him out even more than the tattoo.”

Self consciously, RS-8891 touched his neck. It was odd, to have something that made him part of the group now so obviously single him out as not belonging. He hunched his shoulders up as if it could make it less obvious.

“He needs a name that’s not a serial number, it’s dehumanizing.” Trott looked at him, eyes dark and fathomless. Ross looked away, feeling all too visible.  

“We can’t just take away his name, Trott.” Smith wrinkled his nose.

“Is it really a name?” Trott snapped. “They assign them numbers, for heaven’s sake. They took away his name first, whatever it might have been.”

“Still!” Smith threw up his hands. “It isn’t any better for us to do the same thing now!”

RS-8891 carefully set his fork down, and stared at the table top. He was only half listening now, not paying attention to their words. He found himself thinking of RS-3536, who had a habit of assigning nicknames to their fellow squad mates. He would nudge RS-8891 in the shoulder and tell him stories he’d cadged from freighter crews about bounty hunters and rebels out there in the vast dark of space. RS-8891 had fallen asleep countless nights, listening to RS-3536’s voice. He wondered where his squad was now, if the rest of them had survived, if they mourned him as dead or if they were scorning his memory as a traitor to everything they knew. Did MK-4992 regret putting him on the kill list? Did they even know what happened?

Gradually, he realized the others had stopped talking. Trott was staring at Smith, and Smith was staring at him with that concerned face from earlier in the day. RS-8891 cleared his throat, and tried to collect his thoughts.

“Ross,” he said. His voice sounded rough, and he swallowed. The word fell into the silence, and RS-8891 counted it as another betrayal. They never used their nicknames outside of those moments, their hour of rest when the armor was neatly stowed away. He’d never said it, he realized, only heard it from other lips.

“My nickname was Ross,” he said slowly. He felt a small sense of pride that his voice held steady. “We had names, private ones, in our squad. I don’t know if everyone did that, but we did.”

“Would it be okay if we called you that?” Smith asked. RS-8891 imagined he could see some kind of compassion in the man’s expression.

RS-8891 nodded, and took a long drink of his tea. An ache pressed behind his eyes. He almost wanted to take it back, to rewind time. But these irrevocable choices were past him already. He had already doomed himself, right from the very start.

“Ross,” Smith said thoughtfully, and looked at Trott. “I think it is a good name.” Trott nodded.

RS-8891 picked up his fork again, trying to seem as if nothing was unusual. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Smith push the plate of fruit closer to him. RS-8891 took another slice, eating the rest of his meal in silence.

 

* * *

 

Without someone to tell him where to be and assign his tasks, Ross felt lost. He tried to shape his days into a routine, something that would give him a sense of the familiar. Ross would walk to the ship hangar where Smith’s wing was housed, and join in the morning run with a few of the other pilots and mechanics. It was nothing as rigorous as the practices he was used to, but it was something. He liked it for the focus on doing things, and less talking. No one asked him questions, being too busy running laps through the hangar bays, or down to the base of the canyon and back. The morning air was chilly, and it felt good to let his mind go blank while he ran.

Trott’s concern that he wouldn’t fit in seemed unwarranted, though he suspected his obvious connection to Smith made it possible. Mostly the other mechanics and pilots didn’t pry, unless he said something that opened a door on his previous life. Ross was quiet. He tried not to stand out. His healing injuries were easy enough to pass off, and Smith simply said Ross was another prisoner on the destroyer they’d escaped. It was true enough. There was less hostility than he anticipated. Ross chalked that up to Smith. He suspected it went a long way towards making the others in the hangar more comfortable with him. Some of them seemed wary, but Ross kept his head down. He tried to think of himself as Ross and not RS-8891. He did not speak of his past or why he was here.

The ship hangars were the place Ross felt most comfortable. Working, nothing else seemed to matter. It gave him a routine that he sorely needed. Trying to find his balance without the regimented, controlled schedule of life in the barracks was difficult. He was almost pathetically glad when someone told him to do something, and he felt ashamed of that.

He worked as much as he could, often taking on the extra tasks. It seemed to bother Smith some, and he often chided Ross for working too much. But it helped keep him out of the house. There was much to keep him busy though. He found himself missing the routines of exercise and training from his previous life. When the squad wasn’t on active duty, they returned planetside for a month or two of training and conditioning. He was used to having the activity so regular and routine that it was second nature. The work helped fill that gap.

Smith was often in an out of the hangar, working on ships or talking with the pilots and their droids. He made a point of finding Ross, dragging him away from work to eat at some point during the day. They would sit at a long table full of pilots and mechanics, and Ross would listen to them. He felt strangely out of place, even as they made an effort to include him.

Evenings were the time he felt most at a loss for what to do with himself. Sometimes he sat and worked at some piece of machinery or electronics he didn’t quite understand, learning about the older models of various bits of technology. Ross learned the quirks of the X-wings and other ships favored by the resistance. The First Order gave him a thorough education, so it was quick work to pick up on the differences in these ships. It was satisfying to know ships were ships, no matter whose they were. Mostly he found it interesting, the fixes and workarounds made when one didn’t have the seemingly unlimited resources of an empire behind them.

Ross spent too much time wondering about why he was still alive. Why he hadn’t died on the field, when his squad left him, or in the crash of the stolen ship, or the prison cell, or even during the escape. He didn’t understand why he was still breathing, or what he should do now with his life. The questions haunted him, but Ross swallowed them and kept his silence. Part of him still felt certain the First Order would find him, and execute him, that he deserved nothing less than a traitor’s death.

Ross knew he was taking up space in Trott’s home, and Smith’s time, and he had the sense Trott begrudged him that. He could sense privacy and space were much more available, and more important here. It made him lonely in some ways. Ross was used to being constantly around someone. There were few places or times a stormtrooper ever felt truly alone. It was especially difficult at night, trying to fall asleep in the painful quiet. He felt guilty, listening to the sound of voices through the wall. He took to leaving the window open, hoping the ambient noise would help. The bed was nice, and the pillows were better. But he kept rolling over to find it empty.

He kept his old clothes under the pillow. The cupboards held some clothes of Smith’s that fit him, as they were close enough to the same size. Smith promised they could go get him some things of his own, but Ross kept putting it off. It felt strange. He missed his armor, which sometimes made him want to laugh until he cried. They’d never stopped complaining about their armor. Every new “improvement” inevitably came with new disadvantages and discomforts, and complaining about that was one of the squad’s favorite topics. But he’d taken for granted the security of it, the ease of never having to think too much about what he needed to put on each day.

Trott caught him staring, more than once. Sometimes it was when Smith laid with his head on Trott’s leg, reading, or when he’d lean in to kiss Trott. Trott would frown, and Ross would hastily look away. He wished he didn’t want to join them so badly. He wanted the comfort of having another body beside his own, that solidity and sense of security that came with it. He wanted that even more than he wanted to know what it was like to kiss someone so casually, so openly. This life had so much more space and freedom, but Ross found it too daunting to enjoy. It just made him miss the barracks and his squad.

It didn’t help the situation with Trott that Ross didn’t seem to have the skills Trott considered common or practical. He left his dishes sitting on the counter, wet towels piled in the basket, and Trott would loudly bang them about as he cleaned up, muttering about ungrateful and lazy men. Ross realized very quickly that he was expected to do this, unlike in the barracks where someone had a job specifically cleaning up after meals, or washing the towels, or any of a thousand other small chores.

Ross could sense that Trott was not entirely thrilled to be sharing his home with someone else, perhaps especially someone who came from the First Order. Ross did what he could to take up less space and stay out of his way.

 

* * *

 

The first time Smith and his squad left on a mission, Ross stayed working in the hangar even after the other mechanics had gone. Going home seemed unappealing. Trott always had that faintly disapproving air, as if he was perpetually unhappy with the state of things. Ross felt like he would only make that worse, just being in Trott’s space. He reasoned that Trott might be glad if Ross just stayed away, left him his space for a bit.

He tinkered with a flight control module, trying to puzzle out what had gone wrong in the delicate wiring inside. Before, he would have sent for another one and tossed this in the trash. The resistance base didn’t have a trash chute, or a steady supply of flight modules though.

“Working late?” Trott leaned down, looking at the module in his hands. Ross dropped it, startling backwards. He hadn’t heard a sound. Maybe that was a Jedi trick, being able to walk silently.

“I didn’t hear you,” he fumbled, crouching down under the workbench to find the module. His cheeks burned with embarrassment. He checked the plate carefully, making sure he hadn’t bent anything. Mostly he tried to avoid looking directly at Trott until his heart calmed.

“Sorry,” Trott shrugged. He glanced around the empty workshop, mostly dim except for the high lights in the bays. “It’s late.”

“Lost track of time,” Ross said, though they both knew it was a lie. He rubbed at the back of his neck. His hair was starting to grow out of the buzz cut, more like how it was when he was young. Ross thought about growing it long enough to cover the tattoo on his neck.

“I thought you might have eaten at the cafeteria…”

“Oh.” Ross looked at the workbench with its scattered tools and parts, a stained and battered guide for wiring. “I didn’t think about it.”

“Well, you should eat something, get some sleep.” Trott stepped back, giving Ross some room to put away his tools.

The walk back was quiet. Small lanterns along the path lit up the ground. The canyon walls were barely visible in the deep darkness beyond the settlement. Ross let himself fall into a march step, following Trott’s swift strides.

Ross showered, trying to remember he didn’t have to speed through it. The water would continue as long as he wanted to stand there, letting it run down his shoulders. Wearing some of Smith’s old sweatpants and a soft shirt, he went back downstairs so Trott wouldn’t have to come up and find him again. The Jedi was in the kitchen, reheating the simple meal he’d obviously cooked earlier.

“Sorry,” Ross apologized. “I should have looked at the clock.”

“It’s alright,” Trott said, pushing the food around in the pan. “Time always seems to stand still when he’s away. You get used to it.”

Ross washed their dishes afterwards. In the living room, Trott curled up with a book. It was quiet, and Ross felt hyperaware of every sound. Without Smith around, it felt strange. He didn’t quite know what to do with himself. Ross didn’t exactly want to be alone but he didn’t think Trott wanted his company. Smith usually smoothed the gaps, or Trott vanished up to their room.

He settled on the floor at the other end of the sofa with his boots. Carefully he pulled out the laces, and set to cleaning the leather with a rag. The methodical task was easy and familiar. Ross had sat at the foot of his bed so many times, cleaning his boots and listening to his squad.

Looking up, he found Trott staring at him, book face down on his lap.

“I can go do this somewhere else,” Ross began. Trott looked so perpetually annoyed, it was hard to tell sometimes what provoked it. But Ross had noticed certain noises tended to make him set his jaw. Maybe Jedi had more sensitive hearing. Ross had no idea. He tried not to ask questions about it.

“Can you play Go?” Trott asked, surprising him.

“I don’t know that.” Ross shook his head. “We played cards, usually.”

“What games?”

“Mostly poker, though we played gin and laro too.”

Wearing a thoughtful expression, Trott got up from the sofa. He opened up a drawer in the kitchen, digging around. Ross laced his boots again, and wiped his hands clean on a corner of the rag.

“Smith’s a filthy cheater, like every pilot.” Trott tossed a deck of cards on the table in front of the sofa. “You shuffle.”

“Our pilots were cheats too,” Ross said without thinking. It was only after the words left his mouth that he froze, wondering if that was something he shouldn’t have said. But Trott only laughed, and poured them cups of cold tea. They sat on the floor, spreading their cards across the low table. Something changed in the quiet between, an ease brought on by the shared activity. Dealing out their cards, Ross stopped worrying about what strange Jedi tricks Trott might use on him. It was dangerous to relax but he did it anyway. They didn’t speak much, just played until they were both yawning, and Trott shuffled them both off to their beds.

 

* * *

 

The next night, they had just finished eating when Smith returned. He let the door fall shut behind him, crossing the room in long, swift steps to wrap himself around Trott. Ross looked away, feeling as if he was invading something not meant for his eyes. He carried his plate to the kitchen, trying to wash it without too much noise but also trying not to listen to their quiet words.

“Hey, buddy.” Smith stopped just short of hugging him too, and Ross felt a strange stab of disappointment. Instead Smith put a hand on his shoulder, smiling.

“I’m starving,” Smith continued, turning to raid the remains of dinner. Trott was already making him a bowl of the spicy soup full of crunchy vegetables and fish balls.

“Forget to pack your snacks?” Trott teased, watching Smith eat with an amused expression.

“Yeah,” Smith mumbled around a mouthful of food. “Didn’t have time to stop for anything.” He leaned back against the kitchen counter, shoveling food into his mouth in a rush. Ross almost smiled, thinking about the terrible ration bars they would eat on the transit ships, and how that always made whatever food they were served after feel like the best meal.

“Boots, Smith.” Trott kicked his ankle lightly. Smith whined, but set down his food to tug off his boots.

“I want a bath, I can still smell that fucking bantha shit-”

“I’ll pick up,” offered Ross. He started to clear the last of the dishes from the table. He felt less awkward with some purpose to his presence. Smith started to say something, but Trott was already pulling him towards the stairs. Ross listening to the thump of their steps, the click of the door and the sound of water running from the taps. Loneliness swept through him, leaving him cold.

 

* * *

 

Smith glanced over his shoulder, looking at Trott leaning against the sink. The bathroom was already filling with steam from the hot water.

“Why don’t you join me?” He suggested, dropping his clothes on the floor. “You’re just going to get hot and sweaty with no reward out here.”

“Ross is downstairs,” Trott said, frowning a little.

“Ross is fine,” Smith said. He grinned and stretched his hand out, wiggling his fingers. “The Force compels you-”

“Oh shut it,” Trott groaned. But he started to unfasten his belt, and Smith laughed victoriously.

The water splashing down on his head was just shy of being too hot, and it felt glorious. Days in a ship tended to make one feel dry and vaguely itchy, unless one ran an expensive system to regulate the humidity on top of the life support. Smith had no time to waste on this, so he put up with being dehydrated and vaguely discomforted. It made that shower after getting back so satisfying. Smith stuck his face in the water, opening his mouth to swish some around.

He felt Trott’s hand on his back as he stepped into the shower behind Smith.

“Don’t drown yourself,” Trott chuckled.

Smith turned, pulling Trott up against him. The line between Trott’s brows melted away, and he looked genuinely happy.

“Miss me?” Smith asked.

“Not at all,” Trott shook his head.

“Liar.” Smith kissed him, and Trott moaned softly. Smith ran his hands down Trott’s back, squeezing his ass.

“You want me in here to scrub your back, or your dick?” Trott mumbled.

“Both?”

Smith made pleased noises as he leaned against the wall, water running over him and Trott scrubbing him with the scratchy cloth he liked. The sharp, evergreen scent of the soap filled his nose, and Smith put his forehead against the polished stone wall. It was pleasantly cool, a nice contrast to the hot water.

Trott’s hands slid around his hips, and over his stomach. Trott pressed into his back, and Smith pushed against him. The first brush of Trott’s fingers over his cock made Smith groan.

“I _know_ you missed me.” Trott bit his shoulder, teeth leaving little crescent marks in his skin.

“I missed you,” Smith agreed. He rocked his hips into Trott’s hand, bracing his forearms against the wall. “That was all I thought about, besides making sure I didn’t smash the ship right into the ground.”

“It’s making me crazy, having someone in the house all the time…” Trott squeezed and Smith gasped. “I want to fuck you and not worry about someone listening, or having to keep you from shouting.”

“Trott… fuck, that feels so good.” Smith twisted round, reaching for Trott. As much as he loved that position and the way it felt to have Trott plastered to his back, he wanted to kiss Trott again and touch him. His skin was slick under Smith’s hands, warm from the shower. Smith hooked an arm over Trott’s shoulders, kissing him with a new urgency. Trott’s breathy little gasp as Smith tugged at the dark curls of hair at the base of his cock made him smile.

“Come on, sunshine, we can’t.”

“Of course we can. Just like when we snuck around at Sips’ place. It’s fine!”

Trott groaned.

“Bad enough I catch him looking at you, I don’t need him listening to us fuck.”

“Wait, what?” Smith paused, brows going up.

“I’ve caught him staring at us, any time you kiss me. Or if we’re just, I don’t know, sitting there together on the couch and touching.” Trott raised a hand, making that irritable, perplexed face when Smith laughed. “It’s not funny, Smith.”

“Oh Trott, are you jealous?” Smith teased, pulling him close again.

“It just makes me uncomfortable.”

“Trott, he stares at everyone in the hangar or at lunch like that,” Smith said, smoothing his hand over Trott’s hair, wet now from the shower. “He told me awhile back that the stormtroopers have all these strict rules about no sex and no kissing, and he’s never seen people just kiss out in the open. I am not sure if he’s scandalized or baffled that no one gets in trouble for it.”

“Oh.” Trott chewed on his lip, leaning into Smith. “Well. I guess that makes sense.”

“He’s just getting used to things, he’s not plotting to fuck me behind your back.” Smith nuzzled Trott, unable to resist teasing him. “Though he is pretty good looking, if you want to invite him into the bed with us…”

“Smith!”

“What, it is not like that’s never happened.”

“Not with someone like him.”

“Because he used to be a stormtrooper, or something else?”

“I don’t think…” Trott pushed himself back, looking up at Smith. “He’s still a mess Smith, a couple weeks of being away from the Order is not some cure all. We shouldn’t do anything to make him more confused.”

“You’re right, you’re right.” Smith picked up a shampoo bar from the little basket in the corner. “I was joking. Mostly.”

“I knew you didn’t spare his life out of the goodness of your heart.”

“Hey!”

“Trust you not to shoot a stormtrooper because you got suckered by a pair of pretty eyes.”

“So you think his eyes are pretty,” Smith laughed gleefully.

“Shut up and get on your knees, Smith.”

Eagerly, Smith dropped down, shuffling forward.

“Do you want me to wash your hair?” Trott asked, snapping his fingers for the shampoo.

“Please,” Smith begged. He relaxed into the sure massage of Trott’s fingers on his scalp, lathering up the bar and combing through Smith’s hair. Moaning appreciatively, Smith gripped Trott’s thighs and pressed kisses to the jut of his hip bones.

“Close your eyes,” Trott directed. He tipped Smith’s head back into the spray, rinsing away the suds. Gentle fingers wiped away the water from his face. Smith could feel the weariness in his bones from all the travel time, and the stress of the mission. But it receded while he had Trott here, his fingers sliding over Smith’s face and his untrimmed beard. For once, he looked forward to shaving.

Smith kissed Trott’s stomach, running his tongue along the trail of hair leading downwards. When Trott’s fingers tightened on his head, Smith continued. He mouthed at Trott’s cock, stiffening again under his attentions.

“Smith,” Trott moaned quietly. The sound spiked right through him, so pleasurable it was almost painful. He ran his hands up Trott’s thighs, and sucked at the tip of his cock. His tongue swirled over the head, teasing. With a muffled groan, Trott urged him onward. He tugged at Smith’s wet hair. With deliberate slowness, Smith took him fully into his mouth. The salt and skin taste of Trott was diluted with the water, and Smith had to push Trott back a step so the shower didn’t drown him. He slid a hand up to the small of Trott’s back, trying to savor the feel of Trott under his hands and in his mouth.

Trott barely made a sound, and his restraint excited Smith. He wanted to provoke something to crack Trott’s control. So he pushed himself, taking Trott as deep as his could with the steady bob of his head. He sputtered and choked a little when water ran into his mouth, but he kept at it.

“Smith,” Trott hissed. “Fuck, Smith.” It very nearly made him laugh to hear Trott’s quiet desperation. He hummed as he sucked, one hand moving to grip Trott’s cock as he moved his mouth up and down. His fingers tightened, stroking Trott at the same quick pace. It was only a tiny gasp and the grip of Trott’s hands on his head that warned him, letting him pull up enough to swallow. Smith licked him gently until Trott shuddered and pushed him back.

With a grunt, Smith sat back on his heels, the shower raining down on his head. He closed his eyes and grinned, waiting for Trott to recover himself. Trott’s hand on shoulder arm tugged him back to his feet, and they embraced, swaying in the shower.

“I missed you,” Trott said.

“I missed you too.” Smith kissed his head.

“You’re getting my hair wet.”

“It was already wet.”

Trott heaved a long suffering sigh, and tucked his head against Smith’s chest.

“I’ll comb it for you,” Smith offered. “In fact, I brought you a comb when I stopped in the spaceport.”

“I do like to be wooed with gifts,” Trott said. He trailed a hand down Smith’s ribs and stomach. Smith sucked in a breath, uttering a needy little moan as Trott’s fingers brushed over his cock again.

“Trott,” Smith murmured. “Please.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to kiss you.”

Trott pulled him into a kiss and Smith moaned again. He slid his feet wider, steadying himself as Trott jerked him off with unhurried strokes. Smith lost himself in the warmth and pleasure of the moment, the slide of Trott’s hand on his skin and the softness of his mouth. When Trott bit Smith’s lower lip, he came with a little gasp. His fingers dug into Trott’s back, and Smith rubbed his face against Trott with pleasure.

“Oh I missed you,” Smith sighed, angling them so the water would rinse away the mess.

“You have two hands of your own,” Trott retorted. But he laughed and pulled Smith into another kiss.

“It’s better when you do it.”

Trott rolled his eyes, and shut off the water. Smith watched him reach for the towels, and something in his heart ached with how happy he felt.

“What are you staring at?” asked Trott, handing him one of the fluffy grey towels.

“You,” Smith said, delighting in the color of Trott’s cheeks. He wrapped them both in a towel and kissed Trott again just because he could.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some blood, a workplace accident, PTSD and depression happening in this chapter. For all that, it includes one of my favorite scenes I've written for this story. Space hippie Jedi Sips is a gift to my tired heart.

Often the return of the flight crews was a time of celebration. Ross always felt a little strange. Should he cheer with everyone? Was it hypocritical of him? Did anyone he know die, on either side? The crowds of people made him nervous and uncomfortable, as if somehow it became obvious he didn’t belong. He tried to throw himself into immediately checking over the ships as a way to avoid all the conflicting feelings. Work was work, even if it was the wrong sort of ship.

Ross was sitting on top of Zo’s X-wing, checking for damage, when Nano popped up the ladder.

“Hey there,” she said. Her hair was cut shorter, a chin length bob that angled down. The red tips were still there though.

“Hello,” Ross said. He wondered why she was up here.

She climbed onto the wing beside him. “How’s it looking?”

“So far so good.” Ross traced a scorch mark. “Pretty close. Just making sure nothing is cracked.”

“I hear you’re quite the mechanic.”

“I’m learning,” he said carefully. “But ships pretty much all work the same, when you get down to it.”

“Are they much different?” Nano asked. Ross chewed on his lip, wondering what to say when she was so clearly fishing for information.

“Yes and no.” Ross tapped his fingers on the panel. “Flight mechanics are basically the same. You just have to do a lot outside the books, less brand new parts. It’s clever though.”

“General Nano!” Someone called out from the ground. Nano leaned over the wing of the ship. Ross froze, staring at her. He felt hot, then cold.

“I’ll be right down!” She waved. When she sat back, she met Ross’ surprised gaze.

“You’re a general,” he blurted out. “General of the Resistance.” She didn’t look like a general. The only ones he’d known were cruel, older, and confident in their powers. Those men and women wore their rank everywhere. He studied her clothes, searching for some insignia. There was a pin at her collar, small and plain. But otherwise she dressed much like the pilots he saw, and to his eyes she was too young to be a general in his mind.

“One of them - there’s a few of us.” Nano asked. “I should have said something sooner.” She looked a bit abashed, as if he had caught her in a lie.

“Does it matter?” Ross looked down at his tools.

“I thought it would be easier for you to talk to someone, if you weren’t-”

“Thinking about who they are?” Ross finished. He wiped at the scorch mark on the panelling. Just a graze. Not even enough to warp the metal. Only a shadow left behind from a bolt that could have killed.

“I wasn’t trying to trick you.” Nano put a hand on Ross’ arm. He tensed, pulling away from her to reach for his tool box.

“It’s fine,” Ross said. He just wanted this conversation to be over, to get out of here and push down this awkward, uncomfortable feeling. The hangar was crowded with people, pilots and mechanics and others. Things were festive. Whatever their mission was, it was a success. Ross tried not to listen too much, not wanting to know what they planned to do or what they’d done.

“General!” A voice rose above the crowd, echoed by others.

“Look, we’re going to sit down and talk later, okay?” Nano scooted towards the ladder. Ross waved her off, picking up a screwdriver. His hand shook, and he stayed crouched there for a long moment. The sound of voices, rising in a cheer, echoed in the hangar. Ross squeezed his eyes shut. He felt shaky, like he’d been walking a high edge or tossing grenades, brushing up against something dangerous.

 

* * *

 

Ross jerked awake, a muffled scream in his throat. For a long moment he lay there, trying to find himself. The remains of his dream echoed in his mind, the sound of Brinlew’s voice and the glowing lights of the droid. Untangling himself from the blanket twisted around his legs, he sat up in bed. The faintest light from the window gradually resolved the darkness into shapes. Nothing glowed. There were no droids or First Order officers in the room. Ross sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, watching the sky outside lighten enough to reveal the edges of the canyon.

Sleep got more difficult as the week wore on. He dreaded the moment of putting his head down on the pillow, and the descent into dreams. They were increasingly vivid and troubling, all the memories he consciously pushed away crowding back up in his mind. In the dreams, his squad marched away so quickly he could never catch up. Or Brinlew and Marha returned to torment him, suffocating him in a tiny box, their laughter ringing in his ears.

He thought it would stop. He hoped it would stop. But the feelings persisted, a drumbeat of bleak thoughts that wrapped his days in a haze. Ross wondered over and over what was wrong in him, what made him different from the others he had lived and fought beside in the ranks of the stormtroopers. He wondered why he couldn’t face death with the same fearless equanimity that others did. Why he so desperately wanted to live when clearly he was unworthy of it. The thoughts haunted him, turned into dreams and nightmares. Ross sometimes sat on the floor by the window, leaning against the wall. Sitting up, he could only doze fitfully, and it seemed not quite deep enough for dreams. It left him exhausted though.

 

* * *

 

Smith pushed open the door, stumbling in his haste and sleepiness. Ross screamed again, breathless and sounding frightened. Clumsily, Smith turned on the little lamp. The neat bedroom was empty except for Ross twisted in his blanket.

“Ross, Ross, Ross,” Smith repeated. He hovered at the side of the bed, torn with wanting to gather Ross tightly in his arms and knowing Ross would think it was an attack. Carefully Smith crouched, and covered Ross’ clenched fist with his hand.

“Ross, wake up.”

“Please, please, please,” Ross moaned. His eyes flickered open. In the dim light, his pupils were big and unfocused, still searching something that wasn’t real.

“You’re dreaming, Ross, it’s just a dream.”

“I don’t- I don’t, please.” Ross’ voice cracked, and the sound of it made Smith wince. He gave up and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Come on, sit up,” he urged. Gently, Smith pulled Ross upright. He rubbed a hand down his back, feeling the tremors shaking Ross’ body. It seemed worse tonight, the fear and the incoherence and the way Ross shivered.

“Please, I didn’t- please don’t leave me here,” Ross moaned. One of his hands clutched convulsively at the blanket. Smith wrapped his arms around him. He glanced over his shoulder, where Trott stood wrapped in a robe watching from the door.

“Trott, I don’t know what-”

“This is getting worse,” Trott interrupted, stifling a yawn.

“I know.” Smith sighed, still stroking one hand down Ross’ back. “I don’t think he’s even awake this time.”

Trott frowned, and came into the room to stand beside the bed. This was not the first or the third or even the fifth night they’d been here. Some were easier, where Smith could shake Ross awake or he’d find him already sitting up in bed. This was one of the worse nights.

“Ross,” Trott said quietly. “Look at me.” He tipped Ross’ head away from Smith’s shoulder, studying him. Trott pressed his fingers to Ross’ cheek.

“Ross, wake up.” His voice held the quiet intensity of focused will and the Force. They’d argued, last time, about whether it was right for Trott to do this given how fearful Ross seemed of any sign of Force powers. But Trott countered that it was cruel to leave him in these dreams that he couldn’t seem to wake up from, and this was probably safer than slapping him awake. Reluctantly, Smith agreed.

Ross shuddered and blinked, drawing a ragged breath. It took a moment for him to register where he was, and why they were there.

“Hey,” Smith said quietly, a relieved smile curving his lips. “Bad dreams, buddy.”

“Sorry.” Ross closed his eyes, a line between his brows when he frowned. “Shit, sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Smith patted his shoulder. “You’re safe. Everything’s going to be alright.” Trott shook his head, and walked back into their bedroom. In the silence, Smith listened to the whisper of Trott’s robe as it brushed the door frame, and the sound of Ross’ breath slowing back to normal. Ross tried to pull back, but Smith held onto him for a moment longer. He hoped some reassurance would transmit through the contact. Ross was stiff for a few long seconds, before letting himself relax ever so slightly. He even put his head on Smith’s shoulder.

“It’s going to be okay,” Smith whispered. He hugged Ross tightly, and hoped he was right.

 

* * *

 

Smith tried to pry something loose from Ross’ tight lipped silence. It drove him up the wall that Ross would shake his head and deny that anything was wrong over his coffee, when only a few hours earlier he’d woken up screaming. But every time he asked a direct, or even indirect question, Ross evaded it. For two weeks, Smith couldn’t get him to say anything about the nightmares. It frustrated him.

Trott and Smith were stretched out in bed, a lazy morning with no responsibilities. Smith had woken up early to check on Ross, and found him sleeping sitting with his back against the wall. Smith left him to it, hoping at least it was restful.

Sunlight warmed the room, slanting in through the glass door. Trott sat up against the pillows, combing out his hair. Smith liked these mornings, when they didn’t have to be anywhere. Trott was a vivid splash of color against the pale bedding, with his brightly patterned pajama pants and long hair.

“You can’t force him to talk,” Trott said philosophically. Trott rubbed at the back of Smith’s neck. Usually the gentle pressure of it would lull Smith right back into a doze where he sprawled with his head on Trott’s lap. But worry gnawed at him.

“I know,” Smith said peevishly. “I know that, Trott. What I don’t know is how to help him with whatever is happening.”

“I’m not going to point out that you basically didn’t want to talk about it either-”

“Except you are, right now.”

Trott smiled faintly, and tugged at the long waves of Smith’s hair. He needed a haircut but things were busy.

“But what was it that helped you?” asked Trott. He twisted his hair back into a ponytail, and set the comb on the bedside table.

“Being here, being home with you.”

“He’s lost his home, sunshine.” Trott leaned his head back, eyes closed.

Smith made a small, disconsolate sound. For a time he laid there, turning the problem over in his mind. The past week, he’d woken up to the sound of Ross more often than not. Smith hated the way he looked, so startled and frightened when Smith or Trott would wake him in the middle of the night. Ross always retreated, curled in on himself and apologized. It seemed to be getting worse every day. Maybe they should send him to medical and get him checked out, Smith thought.

“What about you?” Trott asked, drawing Smith from his unhappy ruminations.

“What about me?”

“You don’t wake up screaming, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t affect you.”

“Well.” Smith propped himself up and reached across Trott for the glass of water on their little bedside table.

“It was terrible,” he said slowly. “But there wasn’t so much of it, and I knew it would happen. Frankly I was more surprised they hadn’t done more to me by the time you showed up.”

“They were busy torturing him.”

“They were,” Smith sighed. “That does bother me, that he got dragged into it because he helped me.”

“It’s not your fault,” Trott reasoned.

“I know, Trott, but you can know things and not feel them.”

“So you have to work towards feeling them.” Trott took the glass from Smith, setting it aside before tangling their fingers. “Come on, like we practiced.”

“Don’t make me do stuff,” Smith whined half heartedly, but he squeezed Trott’s hand.

“Eyes closed,” Trott said. “Just breathe.”

Smith grumbled, but followed along with Trott’s voice. He complained, but he actually liked Trott’s little meditative tricks. Skeptical at first, Smith had gotten the hang of sensing the Force, the ebb and flow of the universe around them. There was something soothing in it, knowing it filled up everything and just sort of made the fabric of existence.

Leaning against Trott, warm and comfortable in the blankets, Smith felt for that ever present background hum of the Force. He didn’t have whatever skill one needed to really use it. But he could sense it well enough, and just doing that made it easier to sense Trott. Even when he was far away, Smith could close his eyes and just sort of _reach_ for that place in the hum that was Trott. He couldn’t really explain it, but he knew.

“Better?” Trott asked, kissing Smith’s forehead.

“Yeah.” Smith reached up to pull Trott in for a proper kiss, taking his time. He could feel Trott’s heartbeat, and the strange sense of the Force, all tangled up together. It made him feel safe, in a way.

 

* * *

 

Smith heard the shouting and wriggled backwards out of the narrow space between the decking and the ship’s pipes where he was working on fixing busted coolant lines. Dropping out of the bottom of the ship, he ducked under a wing and followed Zo towards the shouting. His stomach dropped unpleasantly when he saw Ross standing there, white faced and grim.

“What hap-” Smith took in the spreading stain on the arm of Ross’ work jumpsuit, the long slice in the material. One of the mechanics, Tom, held his arm just above the elbow while someone else tied a tourniquet around it. Zo grimaced, a hand held over her mouth.

“Nicked himself pretty good with that plasma cutter.” Tom jerked his head back, where the tool lay on the ground under the ship. Drops of blood trailed over the floor to where it still dripped from his sleeve. Blood smeared Tom’s hands.

“Sorry,” Ross said softly. He looked down at his arm and closed his eyes, swaying a bit. Tom held him steady, concerned.

“Come on, med bay,” Zo said.

“I’ll take him, you go back to work.” Smith took Ross’ other arm. “Can you walk, are you okay to walk?”

“I can walk,” Ross said. He opened his eyes, looking at Tom. “Sorry, I meant to cut the-”

“S’alright, mate. Get yourself stitched up, and I’ll show you how to do that without taking your arm off at the elbow.” Tom clapped him on the back, giving him a lopsided smile. He shot Smith a look, one of those serious expressions that meant even Tom was worried.

Fortunately medical wasn’t far from the hangar, a necessity that Smith was grateful for in the moment. In the elevator, Ross leaned back against the wall. He looked dreadfully pale, arm cradled against his chest.

“What happened?” Smith asked.

“Careless,” Ross whispered. “Just careless, I didn’t think.”

“That doesn’t seem like you,” Smith said. He studied Ross’ face, the dark shadows under his eyes, the drawn lines of his brow. “You look exhausted. Are you sleeping? At all? You aren’t, are you?”

Ross opened his eyes, frowning. Before he could answer, the elevator door dinged open on the upper floor where the medical wing was located deep inside the Resistance base. Smith hustled him along, shouting for someone to come help. One of the medics hurried over, clucking at the injury.

“Hana, there was an accident in the hangar-” Smith spoke at a rapid clip, pushing his worry down.

“Oh, that’s deep. You’re going to need stitches for that.” Hana peeled back the bloody sleeve, peering at the cut down the back of Ross’ forearm. She snagged a cloth soaked in a colorless antiseptic, and began carefully wiping up the blood.

Ross stood there stoically, eyes slightly unfocused as he looked over their heads. But when Hana stuck a needle in his arm, he jerked back.

“No!” Ross looked shocked.

“It’s just something to numb you up before you get stitches,” Hana said crossly. She whistled at the droid hovering in the doorway, beckoning it over.

“No, no, no,” Ross repeated. He stumbled backwards, shoving a chair out of the way.

“Ross, calm down,” Smith said. Hana stared in puzzlement.

“Please no, no more, don’t.” Ross backed into the wall, clutching his arm to his chest. His eyes were wide and panicked.

“Ross, it’s just the med bay droid, they just want to fix your arm…” Smith had a sinking feeling about this. He moved towards Ross. Behind him, he could hear Hana calling for someone else to come help. The droid glided into the room.

“No,” Ross moaned. “I don’t know anything, I swear, please. Please, I won’t-”

Smith stopped, dread and sadness flickering through him. He looked at droid.

“Can you go back out, please?” He said urgently, gesturing. The med bay’s droid didn’t look as sleek and threatening as the ones the First Order had. But it was a medical droid, round and hovering with a series of blinking lights across the top. Close enough maybe to be triggering some kind of memory. It beeped curiously, hovering.

“What?” Hana stared at him. “He needs stitches, unless you think you can do that.”

Smith looked back at Ross, who was struggling to untie the length of cable tied round his arm.

“Shit, Ross, stop.” Smith tried to catch his hand. Ross was hyperventilating, clawing at his arm. Blood smeared all over his work jumpsuit and his arms.

“What the fuck is going on?” Another medic appeared. She yanked open a cabinet, and came up with a sedative that she loaded into a new hypodermic.

“Ross, it’s okay, you’re safe here, listen to me.” Smith tried to keep pressure on his arm, and to stop Ross from hurting himself further.

“Please not the droid again, please I’ve told you the truth-” Ross yelped fearfully as the medic stabbed him with the sedative. The drug took him quickly.  He stumbled, his knees giving out and Smith caught him. Together with the taller second medic, Smith helped maneuver Ross into a chair. The medical droid moved back into the room, beeping urgently.

Hana pushed Smith out of the way, and started wiping down Ross’ arm again while the second medic cut away his sleeve.

“Fuck,” Smith said quietly. He leaned against the wall to watch the medics work, fixing up an unconscious Ross.

 

* * *

 

The beeping made him open his eyes. When RS-8891 saw the grey walls and artificial light, it felt like a punch to the gut. He shuddered, fear spiking through him and the horror that it was all in his head. He was back in his cell. It hadn’t ended.

A bandage covered one arm, and there was an IV in the other. Frantic to stop the beeping of whatever machine he was hooked up to, and whatever drugs they were giving him, RS-8891 clawed at the wrapping over his IV. His knee banged into the railing on the bed.

“Hey, hey, hey.” Smith appeared next to him, and RS-8891 nearly screamed. He wasn’t sure if the man beside his bed was real or a hallucination. Was it the drugs? What had they given him?

“Ross, calm down, don’t yank that out.” Smith took his hand in both of his own.

“What’s happening?” RS-8891 whispered. The hands on his were warm. Ross, he repeated in head. Not RS-8891. Ross. That was his name now.

“You’re in the med bay,” Smith said carefully. “At the Resistance base, remember? We left the First Order ship and we came here, and you were working in the hangar when you had an accident?”

Slowly, Ross’ heart rate steadied, and the monitor stopped beeping. His head ached, and there was the faintest dull throb in his arm. Instantly, he was flooded with shame about his panic. It felt like his dreams were blurring into his reality.

“You don’t like being in here do you?” asked Smith. “I don’t either.” Gently, he helped Ross sit up on the creaking bed.

“I don’t want to be in here.” Ross struggled to speak above a whisper.

“Let me get someone to take your IV out, and we’ll go home.”

While Smith negotiated his release with one of the medics, Ross sat with his eyes closed. It was a little better if he didn’t have to look at anything. He signed his name without thinking, and followed Smith on autopilot. It was simply easier to do what he was told and not think. The sedative still in his system made him feel a bit headachey and foggy. Getting back passed in a blur, and Ross only lifted his head when Smith put a hand on his elbow.

“Let’s get you out of this, into something clean.” Smith helped Ross out of his stained jumpsuit, pulling out the soft cotton pants and shirt Ross usually slept in from the cupboard.

“Don’t leave me alone,” Ross said, a bit hoarsely. “I feel like- I wake up and don’t know where I am.” Smith paused in the doorway, watching Ross shrug into the clean shirt. The bandage covered most of his forearm, fastened with little colored bits of tape.

“Let’s go sit downstairs, yeah?” Smith helped him back to the living room sofa, and gave him a glass of water with some pills. There was a moment where Ross just stared at them, before resolutely swallowing the painkillers. He listened to Smith clattering around in the kitchen for a moment, his head still swimming.

Ross fell asleep on the sofa before Smith even finished heating up the buns Trott left wrapped up in the fridge. Smith tucked a blanket over him, and stood there for a few minutes just watching him sleep. Ross’ hair was growing out of the short buzz cut, and there was a shadow of stubble along his jaw. The dark circles under his eyes looked almost like bruises, and Smith wondered how he hadn’t seen just how bad it was.

Wearily, he settled in a chair opposite the sofa to eat the buns while he kept watch. The twilight faded, and Smith turned on the lamps. He tried to read, but gave up as he couldn’t even concentrate on the silly Gamorrean space smugglers novel. For a moment he considered seeing if Tom or Zo could come sit with him. Smith was slightly surprised Nano hadn’t shown up to see what happened.

Some hours later, Smith snapped out of his doze at the sound of the door. Trott trudged in, dusty and exhausted. He’d been out at Sips’ little homestead in the valley. Nano kept trying to convince Sips to move into the Resistance base. But he demurred, saying someone had to watch the weird llama like creature he kept, and the chickens. The day before, he’d summoned Trott out there with talk about planting a new garden. Grumbling, Trott packed up and went as he always did. Smith knew his excessive complaints concealed a genuine fondness for the crazy older Jedi and his weird life.

“What happened?” Trott asked, kicking off his shoes and taking in the sight of Smith’s tired expression, Ross sleeping on the sofa. He set down his bag with a thump. His eyes widened when he took in the blood staining the front of Smith’s jumpsuit.

“He had an accident, cut himself pretty bad.” Smith took Trott’s hand, pressing it to his face. “Then he flipped out in the med bay when the droid came in, and they ended up having to sedate him…”

“Fuck,” Trott said succinctly.

“When he woke up, he tried to rip out the IV. I think he thought he was back in the First Order cell. He was just so out of it.”

Trott sighed, and stroked a hand through Smith’s hair.

“You’ve got blood on your clothes, go shower.” He pulled Smith up to his feet. “I can watch him.”

Intensely grateful, Smith hugged Trott. He felt reassured by his presence, the solid strength of him. Trott’s hair smelled of the wind, dust and grass. Lingering for another moment, Smith pressed a chaste kiss to Trott’s cheek before dragging himself up the stairs and into the shower. He had every intention of going back downstairs once he was dressed again. But the bed looked soft, and Smith told himself five minutes wouldn’t hurt. He closed his eyes, relaxing finally.

 

* * *

 

Ross woke up to an unfamiliar place, the cushion of the sofa pressing lines into his cheek. Groggily, he sat up and tried to remember why he was there, not at work, what time it was. A dream memory of grey walls flickered in his thoughts.

“Are you hurting?” Trott asked. He set a cup of tea down on the table. The bluish ceramic shaded from dark to light. Ross concentrated on it, trying to will himself into wakefulness.

“Sort of?” Ross managed, his mouth dry. He drank too fast, burning his tongue on the hot tea.

“Medical apparently sent home painkillers, here.” Trott handed him a pair of small blue pills. Ross swallowed them, and sat there for a moment gathering his memories into some sort of order. Finally he looked up to meet Trott’s gaze.

“Why am I on the sofa? What- where’s Smith?” There were gaps. Ross remembered coming home but nothing else after reaching the door, the light on the ground at his feet.

“I think you fell asleep here, and he didn’t have the heart to wake you,” Trott answered. He sipped from his cup. “He’s asleep, upstairs.”

“Oh.” Ross touched the bandage on his forearm, running a finger along the tape holding it to his skin. His arm ached underneath it. The accident came back to him. He remembered the strange numb surprise he felt when he accidentally sliced into his skin instead of the conduit they were repairing. It took a moment for the pain to catch up, and by then Tom was shouting.

“Smith said it wasn’t the worst that could happen,” Trott said, watching him. “You did need quite a few stitches though.”

The memory of the medical bay sharpened and Ross winced, thinking of the droid and the needles, the blind terror. He felt incredibly guilty and ashamed. Trott was still staring, and Ross hunched into himself. He wanted to just disappear. He felt like he was waiting for a reprimand, for an officer to come in and dress him down for his mistakes.

“You seem to want to talk about things even less than Smith,” Trott said, setting down his tea. “But maybe you should. Because what happened yesterday seems related to this not sleeping, waking up screaming business you don’t talk about.”

“It was an accident,” Ross said, his voice trailing off when he couldn’t think of some better explanation.

“And the next accident might be you losing a hand, or even getting killed.” Trott’s dark eyes stayed on him, even as Ross shifted back on the sofa. “Whatever is happening isn’t going to just magically stop, or go away.”

Ross ran a hand over the bandage, pressing down to feel the soreness increase.

“Pretending this isn’t a problem only makes it worse,” Trott said. “I don’t blame you, I don’t particularly like talking about these things either.”

Ross nodded reluctantly.

“Then why?” he asked.

“Because you can’t let it fester. It’s a wound you have to clean up, or it poisons you from the inside.” Trott’s expression was halfway between sad and his usual cranky self.

Ross didn’t know what to say. He stared at the bandage, half wanting to see how bad it was and half wanting to pretend like it wasn’t there. He pressed down on it again, feeling the pain increase.

“Stop that,” Trott snapped, his voice a whip crack in the silence. Ross jerked his hand back, automatically straightening like he’d been caught out by an officer.

“Sorry, I’m tired myself and you really shouldn’t mess with your stitches.” Trott put a hand to his temple wearily, his fingers rubbing at his hairline.

“Right,” Ross said quietly. “Sorry for the trouble.” He was miserably conscious of how much he’d disrupted their lives, their home, just by being there.

“Anyways,” Trott said with a tired groan. “It’s late, and you should get some more sleep. I’m going to bed. The medication’s on the kitchen counter if you need another one.”

He left Ross there, and went upstairs. Ross sat there, drawing the blanket tight around his shoulders, listening to the thump of Trott’s bare feet and the sound of their bedroom door. He wondered if he should get up, go to bed in his room or if he should stay right here where they left him. The uncomfortable sensation filled his throat and stung his eyes. Concentrating hard, Ross tried to will away the misery.

 

* * *

 

A day later, Sips knocked on the door and let himself inside. Ross was home, still not allowed back in the hangar bay. It wore on him, not having anything to do, and left him with too much time to worry inside his head. After watching Ross anxiously struggle to find something to do Trott put him to work doing minor little fixes around the house, small chores that wouldn’t stress his healing arm. Ross felt absurdly grateful for the direction, for being able to do something for Trott. He still hadn’t quite figured out how to apologize, so he just tried to be quiet and helpful. Trott seemed to be home more than usual, and Ross tried to pretend it wasn’t because someone needed to watch him.

“Sips,” Trott greeted. “Fancy seeing you here.” He stopped scrubbing the counter, setting aside the cleaning supplies.

“You knew I was coming.” Sips looked around curiously. Ross dropped his gaze, instead concentrating on dusting off the shelves and replacing the piles of books. Lurid covers were Smith’s novels, the plainer ones were Trott’s books. They fascinated him, though quite a few were in languages he couldn’t read. He’d not seen so many books in one place since his training.

“I didn’t think you would leave your new vegetable patch so soon,” Trott said with some asperity.

“Look Trott, you needed the exercise and I needed a new garden.” Sips laughed, reaching out to affectionately tug on Trott’s braid. Trott rolled his eyes, but hugged Sips with genuine enthusiasm.

“Going to introduce me to your new housemate?” Asked Sips. “Or is he the maid?”

“Ross,” Trott called. “I’d like you to meet someone.”

Ross slowly set down the books he was sorting through.

“This is Sips, my teacher.” Trott watched him carefully, alert for any reaction. He’d watched Ross with the same deliberate look for the past couple days now, as if he expected him to do something at any moment.

Ross nodded, clasping his hands behind his back and straightening up. This Jedi, if that’s what he was, looked far less menacing than Trott. But appearances were deceiving. He looked like an ordinary man of middle age, with short dark hair thinning a bit on top. He would remind Ross of an officer, except that his posture was relaxed and loose limbed in a way Ross wasn’t quite used to. He wore a bright teal tunic, and yellow shorts. Hardly Ross’ mental image of a Jedi, which skewed towards Trott in black looking angry and ready to fight.

“You must be Ross.” Sips grinned and put a hand to Ross’ shoulder. “Come take a walk with me, I want to show you something. Unless Trott needs you to finish your chores first.”

“Go, go.” Trott flapped a hand, dismissing them. “I relish the opportunity for peace and quiet, and a bath.”

Ross looked uncertainly at him, fear putting strange ideas in his head. He didn’t think the Jedi would do anything, but it was possible. He knew even less about Sips than he knew about Trott.

“Don’t do anything weird,” Trott cautioned Sips. “We only just got him fixed up from his accident.”

“Trott,” Sips protested, laughing. “I’m just going to take him on a walk. I bet you guys never go outside.”

“I’ve taken some walks,” Ross offered, trying to think of something to say so that he felt less like a burden and more like a part of the conversation.

“Have you been up to the top of the canyon?” Sips asked. Ross shook his head.

“Well come on then, you’re in for a treat.”

 

* * *

 

Ross followed a step or two behind Sips, trying to keep his eyes on the path and not stare too much at the scenery. He hadn’t been outside the base proper since he’d arrived, aside from jogging down to the canyon floor & the river in the mornings. The grass grew long, almost up to his knees in places, and there were low trees with reddish bark and grey green leaves. They smelled sort of spicy and sweet if you brushed against them. A few taller trees grew further up, along the top of the canyon, their branches thick and knobbled.

As they walked, Sips rambled about the plants, the birds, even the stray lizards. He seemed to know almost everything about the landscape. Ross kept silent, knowing nothing he could add to these observations. He tried not to pick at the bandage. Trott and Smith both frowned when they caught him doing that. His stitches itched. Smith promised they wouldn’t need to go back to the med bay if he left the bandage alone.

“Ahh, here’s the spot.” Sips put his hands on his hips and stood there. “Come take a look, Ross.”

Carefully, Ross stepped over the broken slabs of rock in the grass, the red and gold stone speckled with glimmering bit that reflected the sunlight. For a long moment, he stood silently beside Sips.

The top of the canyon was flat, stretching endlessly towards the horizon. Trees were scattered here and there in the grass. But where the canyon opened up into the wider river valley, the land fell in steep steps made of rock. The river flattened out, wide and shallow as it curved down through the thicker trees and greenery. The inside of the valley seemed brighter than the pale, flat landscape above the canyon.

“One of the best views in the whole damn planet and no one appreciates it here,” Sips grumped. “They’re all just living under that rock like toads.”

“They have to, don’t they?” Ross asked. “To be safe.”

Sips raised an eyebrow.

“There’s no “have to” about anything. Everything’s a choice.” With that puzzling statement, Sips clambered over a rock to the base of one of the bigger trees. Ross followed him, watching Sips settle himself comfortably with his back to the tree.

“Sit down, take a load off.” He watched Ross, his eyes shrewd and observant. “How’d you hurt your arm?”

“Accident,” Ross said as he lowered himself to the ground. He couldn’t help but rub the inside of his arm, itching to rip the bandage free. It was healing up well, though his constant fretting kept it a bit irritated. Ross hoped it would just stop soon. He didn’t want to go back to the med bay. Smith said the stitches would dissolve on their own once his skin knit back together. He seemed surprised by Ross’ wonder, explaining it was an old thing and not new medicine.

“Cause you’re sleeping so bad?” Sips asked. His voice was surprisingly mild.

Ross looked at him sharply, wondering if this was more Jedi trickery.

“Trott told me,” Sips said. “I’m not reading your mind or anything like that. That’s not really how that works anyways.”

“But you can, all the Force users can,” Ross said. He dug his fingers into the grass, relishing the coolness of it. It gave him something to look at other than Sips.

“What would I see if I read your mind?”

Ross tightened his hand into a fist, and did not look up.

“It takes a lot of effort, a lot of concentration,” Sips explained, leaning back against the tree. “You have to sort through all the noise, hoping to find something concrete in there. But really it’s a waste of time and energy. Easier just to talk to people.”

“You could make people to do things, though. Get in their heads.”

“I mean you could, but there’s not much point or reason to do that.” Sips looked up at the branches, the glimpses of blue sky between the leaves. “I’m guessing you’ve seen someone do it though.”

Ross nodded, lifting his head to take in the view. He wondered why no one came up here.

“Someone with a weapon can make you do things, Ross, even easier than someone could with the Force. But I guess it seems more horrible, when you watch it happen.”

“We watched,” Ross said quietly. He stared at the landscape without seeing it, the memory more vivid in his mind. “It was meant to be instructive.”

“Chubby guy, loud voice and a beard?”

“You know him?” Ross asked, surprised.

“There aren’t too many of us these days,” Sips sighed. “Lot of bad blood.”

Ross pondered that.

“Real small group of people running around the galaxy using the Force.” Sips folded his arms. “Marturk always was an asshole. I never liked that guy.”

“We were always told never to speak to them, unless spoken to,” Ross said. “That anyone who can use the Force was terribly dangerous and should be feared.”

“Well.” Sips looked thoughtful. “I suppose that’s not a bad way to look at the Sith in the First Order. They are a bunch of maniacs. You know Marturk had a brother? Killed him, because he was too damn greedy for his own good. I suppose that would have seemed more shocking, a long time ago before everything got so damn crazy.”

Ross shook his head.

“What happened when you saw that Sith bastard?” Sips asked. Ross shredded a leaf, dividing it into tiny pieces.

“We occupied a base on a prison planet that rebelled, tried to declare itself neutral to the First Order and the Resistance.” Ross spoke slowly, trying to organize his thoughts. The memories of the battle were choppy. Vivid moments and blurs of action. The overwhelming cold seeping through his armor; his breath freezing in the helmet’s filter. The lines moving through the snow, firing on the hasty barricades in the streets of the small city while the fighters bombed the prison, laser fire lighting up the dark sky.

“They rounded up the leaders,” he continued. “He was there. Gave a speech about not defying the First Order.”

“Always did like the sound of his own voice,” Sips muttered. “Go on.”

“There was a woman.” Ross hesitated, and plunged through the story. “She kept crying for someone to stop him. Whatever he was doing, it hurt her. First he made her strip off her clothes, and walk into the snow.”

“Then-” Ross’ voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. “He told one of the others to pour water on her… We just watched while he made the leaders of the rebellion kill each other. It felt like it took a long time.”

“That asshole,” Sips said quietly. For a moment they just listened to the wind, blowing through the canyon and the trees. Ross felt vaguely queasy. He hadn’t thought about that mission in a long time. It was starting to feel like his life as a stormtrooper was someone else’s life.

“What they do, Ross, that’s just them and their choices.” Sips stared up at the clouds, the high white tatters stretched over the sky. “That’s not what the Force is. It isn’t good or evil. It’s just a thing, it’s a part of everything.”

“I don’t want any part of it.” Ross shivered, despite the warmth of the day.

“Too bad, it’s already in you.” Sips chuckled at the startled face Ross made. “It’s everywhere, Ross. It’s like air, except it’s in space too, so, I don’t know, something more common than air.” He pulled up a few blades of grass, twirling them in his fingers.

“Would you feel better if you could sense it?” asked Sips. Ross looked at him, trying to determine if that frank and open gaze was just a facade. If there was a trap in his words.

“I don’t know,” Ross said finally. Sips held out his hand, letting the grass fall.

“I give you my word that I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, as Ross hesitated. His hand was warm, a wide palm with callouses and slightly crooked long fingers. Gently Sips clasped Ross’ hand and held it there.

“Alright, deep breath. That’s not so bad, right? Just two guys, holding hands.” Sips chuckled. Ross glanced around dubiously.

“Close your eyes, and we’re going to count to, I don’t know, twenty.”

“Why the counting?”

“Helps me clear my head,” Sips said. “Now close your eyes. I promise nothing bad is going to happen.”

Ross took a breath, and closed his eyes.

“You ever stare up at the sun, get that shadow in your vision?” Sips rambled. “That’s a bit what it is like, if you’re just trying to look at it.”

Ross nodded before he remembered they both had their eyes shut.

“So just count, and relax.” Sips squeezed his hand gently. Something about it made Ross’ throat tighten. Involuntarily he squeezed back, surprised at his reaction.

“One, two, three, four…” Sips counted slowly. Ross watched the colors of the dark, able to tell when the wind lifted the tree branches and put sunlight on his face.

It was subtle at first, just the sense of warmth from Sips’ hand. Ross didn’t much notice it, until he realized he could feel it all over. He opened his mouth, about to ask if he was imagining it, when the dark shifted with colors. They weren’t exactly colors he could name. It was like looking into space, the strange sort of tricks one’s eyes could play on long night watches.

“Keep breathing,” Sips said, squeezing Ross’ hand again. Ross drew a shaky breath. He realized he could see shapes, in the dark.

“How?” Ross asked, wondering if this was madness.

“The Force is part of everything, and that’s the light you see,” Sips said, as if it was utterly normal. “It’s just a very basic part of the structure of things. You, me, this tree, the rocks, everything.”

“Wow,” Ross said after a long pause.

“You can see it right now, because I’m helping you. Normally you wouldn’t. Smith can manage a sort of sensing it, because Trott taught him that trick and he’s got a mild bit of sensitivity to it.”

“Is that how they knew where to find him?” Ross wondered aloud. He lifted his free hand in front of his closed eyes, seeing the faint glow and the change in the darkness.

“Part of it,” Sips said. “He and Trott have quite a bond. It’s nice. They wouldn’t have let that happen in the old days. But fuck it, things change and there’s no point in living like crazy monastic hermits, cause shit is no less fucked up…”

Ross half listened, fascinated and puzzled by Sips’ rambling. He didn’t know quite what the Jedi was referring to, only that he seemed very much against the way things used to be. But the moment felt soothing, like listening to Sips was a balm for both the irritated wound in his arm and the turmoil in his head.

“If they could see me now,” Sips chuckled. “Teaching an ex-stormtrooper how to sense the Force. Alright, that’s probably enough of that for the afternoon.”

The strange glow faded until it was barely visible, and Ross felt a pang. But overall, he felt strangely better than he had in some time.

“You can open your eyes, though damn the sun is bright today.”

Blinking, Ross looked out across the valley. It was a perfect sort of day. Bright, clear sunlight and a sky dotted with just enough cloud to be textured but not crowded. The grass swayed around him in the breeze. Sips watched him closely for a moment, then smiled again.

“Trott would probably practice with you, if you want. Help you learn to do that on your own.”

“I don’t think he much likes having me in his home,” Ross said, looking down at the bandage on his arm.

“Well, Trott gets grumpy when you disrupt his easy routine,” Sips said, nonchalant about Ross’ objection. “But I think you’d get on well with him, if you gave it a chance. He understands what it is like, being alone the way you are now.”

Ross puzzled over the comment. Sips groaned, and levered himself to his feet, brushing bits of grass off his legs.

“Come on, that’s enough outside for one day. Let’s go see what Trott’s making for dinner.”

 

* * *

 

“Sips said something to me,” Ross began. He was walking alongside Smith, on their way down to the hangar. Trott had finally declared his arm healed enough for him to go back to work, with the admonishment to stop fidgeting with it so much. It would probably scar, but not as bad as Ross expected. He had so many questions about the medical care here, but he felt hesitant to ask. He was still embarrassed by losing control of himself in the med bay.

“Sips likes to talk,” Smith said dryly, flashing a little smile.

“He said I should talk to Trott. That he’d understand.”

Smith raised his eyebrows.

“Then maybe you should.”

“But why Trott?” Ross asked, baffled.

Smith paused at the top of the path leading into the wall of rock, and down into the hangar bays. They were alone, the morning light bright, the paths quiet.

“It’s mostly Trott’s story to tell,” he finally said. “But Trott lost his home, everything. I think he might understand what it is like to find yourself living in a strange place, with strange people.”

Ross chewed on his lip, considering the idea.

“Come on, there’s lots of work to do.” Smith touched his elbow gently. “You’ve been missed, I don’t think the rest of of those slackers realized just how much you were doing until they had to play catch up.”

“Sorry,” Ross began to apologize.

“No, it’s alright Ross.” Smith hugged him from the side. “I’m just glad you’re okay. Tom will be glad to see you too, he’s asked about you every day.”

Ross smiled, and tried not to lean into Smith. The feeling of belonging hovered just within his grasp, an ache for what he missed in the companionship of his squad. He’d take it, however he could.

 

* * *

 

Seated at the conference table, Smith tried not to fidget with the small model of planets and stars still up on the holo. He liked to spin it, to watch the stars and planets roll about in the air. The childhood memory of playing at a table much like this one surfaced for a moment, the sound of his mother’s voice talking to someone while Smith rotated galaxies in his hands.

“How’s our stormtrooper?” asked Nano, setting aside a stack of communication chips destined for one of the courier pilots in Smith’s wing.

“He has a name, you know.” Smith found himself feeling a bit acerbic. He didn’t like the way Nano sometimes spoke about Ross.

“I know Ross’ name.” Nano stared at him, and Smith returned the look. Trott sighed and kicked him under the table. They were having their usual meeting to discuss Ross’ recovery. He was still in the hangar, helping Tom with a particularly vexing cable problem on one of the ships.

“Better, I think,” Trott said. He was more diplomatic than Smith wanted to be.

“How much better?”

“That’s hard to quantify,” Trott hedged. “He’s healing up fine from his accident. Sleeping better since Sips took a look at him, but it is hard to say if that will last.”

“Better enough that we could make a holo of him, to give to some of Angor’s people on the Core worlds?” Nano asked. She rested her chin in one hand.

“What?” It came out shocked, and Smith stared at Nano.

“A story is just a story,” Nano said. “But a visual is so much more, especially if it comes directly from him.”

“You want him to be a propaganda piece?” Smith sputtered.

“We talked about this.”

“We talked about him being proof that not everyone in the First Order is irredeemable! Not being used as a showpiece.” Smith shifted in his seat. The command council meetings had briefly discussed Ross in the last few sessions. The idea of publicizing the story of a stormtrooper defecting was tossed about. Angor seemed very keen for it. Smith thought his vehement protests had shut down the idea, but he realized now they hadn’t managed to stop it.

“If you do this,” Trott said in his careful voice, “Then you make him a target. The First Order won’t like it.”

“If we do it, we have something of incredible value to the cause of the Resistance.” Nano tapped her fingers on the table. “Living, breathing proof that even the people inside the First Order can come to understand its failures, and reject it. He killed an officer, you told me yourself.”

“Living, breathing proof right up until they kill him,” Smith muttered.

“They’d kill him now anyways, just to complete the bureaucratic process,” Nano said with a shrug. “Wouldn’t it be better for them to have a good reason?”

“You’re insane,” Smith said, unable to stop himself.

“Excuse you, Commander Smith,” Nano snapped in a cold voice. “You forget your manners.”

“Smith,” Trott hissed under his breath.

“You don’t care about him at all,” Smith said, furious and sick. He felt betrayed. Nano had assured him Ross would receive protection and not be treated as a prisoner after their escape.

“And you care entirely too much, as I’ve told you before.” Nano leaned back in her chair. She looked tired, Smith thought, dark circles under her eyes.

“You promised me, Nano.”

“And I’ve kept that promise!” She grimaced and raised her hands. “But we are fighting a war, Smith, and we have to use every opportunity we can-”

“Don’t give me that excuse,” Smith shot back. “I’m quite aware of what’s at stake.”

“Maybe we should discuss this with Ross, rather than making a decision for him?” Trott suggested, looking ill at ease.

“I would like to talk to him again,” Nano agreed, settling herself.

“We should probably talk to him, about you and about the holo,” suggested Trott.

“He already knows about me.” Nano shrugged.

“You told him?” Smith looked at Trott, startled by the revelation.

Trott raised his eyebrows. “When did that happen?”

“When you came back from the shipyard fight.” Nano said absently, rearranging her clipboard. “Couple weeks ago? I don’t remember exactly.”

“He didn’t say…” Smith trailed off, rubbing a hand over his face. He tried to think back. A sideways glance at Trott and his troubled expression confirmed his unvoiced fear.

“Look, set up a meeting at some point with me or Angor, and let’s get working on this. I want footage of him going to the Core worlds on our next run.” Nano gathered her things, rising from the table. She was already distracted before she made it out the door, aides waiting in the hall for her attention for a million other decisions.

Smith and Trott didn’t speak until they were outside, walking back towards home.

“Trott,” Smith said, his voice low and urgent. “Do you think, I mean, is that what changed? Does he think this is some trick?”

“Maybe,” Trott said wearily.

“He never said anything,” Smith said quietly. “He must be too scared.”

“What are we going to do, Smith?” Trott asked. He sounded worried.

“I don’t know.” Smith stared across the canyon, watching a pair of birds spiral through the air. He envied their freedom, wondering why being part of the Resistance felt so confining some days.

 

* * *

 

They sat at the kitchen table, cups of hot tea growing slowly cold in front of them.

“You don’t have to do this,” Smith said, his face full of worry. He turned his cup round and round.

Ross shook his head. Of course he had to do it. He could see that. What good was he to them if he didn’t? A waste of time and resources, taking this wounded traitor into their care, if he didn’t provide what they wanted. The lingering fear that he would be executed resurfaced.

“There’s not really a choice, is there?” Ross looked down at the table. “Not when it comes from an officer.” He heard Trott sigh.

Smith swore, something Ross didn’t recognize, and pushed away from the table. He paced around the dimly lit space, frustrated and angry. Ross wished he could summon up a feeling like that. But that sort of defiance got one killed fast, as a stormtrooper. They trained it out, keeping only the ones who would accept their orders. Sometimes Ross wondered how he had ever summoned the will to beg Smith not to shoot him in the first place. It still shocked him.

“Okay,” Trott said finally. He turned from watching Smith pace to look directly at Ross. “We won’t be in the room, but we’ll be right there, while it happens. No one is going to hurt you, and nothing will happen to you if you want to stop.”

“Nano’s a bitch, but she’s not that much of a bitch,” Smith muttered. Trott gave him a sharp look, and Smith grumbled something under his breath.

“Pretend you didn’t hear that,” Trott said dryly.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Smith demanded suddenly. He loomed over the table, almost blocking the single overhead light.

“What?” Ross shifted in his seat, caught off guard by the abrupt change in Smith.

“You found out about Nano being a general-”

“Smith, leave off,” Trott said, his voice quiet but heated.

“Oh.” Ross hunched his shoulders. “I didn’t- I don’t know. Was it a test?” He winced at the pitiful sound to his voice. It felt like a failure.

“No,” Smith scoffed. “Just Nano being-” He closed his mouth when Trott gave him another sharp glare.

“No, Ross,” Trott said in a calmer voice. “We just didn’t realize you knew. We could have talked about it, if we had.”

Ross lifted his cup in both hands, feeling the faded warmth. He shrugged, unsure of what to say or do.

“For all her faults,” Trott said, “Nano is not like a First Order officer. She doesn’t demand unquestioning obedience and she’s not going to torture you.”

“She’d like obedience,” Smith muttered, leaning on the kitchen counter with his arms folded.

“Smith, you are not helping,” Trott said, his voice low and irritated.

“Fine!” Smith sullenly stomped over to the stairs. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Do that.” Trott sat back in the chair. Ross could feel his gaze. He kept his eyes resolutely down, and his hands locked around his cup.

“Despite Smith’s surliness about all this,” Trott said carefully, “It is not a command. It’s a request.”

“In my experience, generals don’t make many requests,” Ross said after a pause. “It’s an order.”

“You’re not a soldier anymore.”

“Do you think so?” Ross lifted his eyes to meet Trott’s.

“Well,” Trott said wearily. “That’s for you to decide.”

They sat in silence for a bit. Trott got up to make himself another cup of tea, and Ross listened to the sound of the water running upstairs.

“Smith’s not angry with you,” Trott said as he sat back down. “He’s frustrated with Nano because they’ve disagreed about this, and he wasn’t expecting her to go through with this plan.”

“This was the idea all along, then.” Ross rubbed his hand over the scar on his arm, gently tracing the line.

“The idea,” Trott began but Ross waved his hand to stop him.

“I couldn’t have expected not to have to pay for this, somehow,” said Ross. He shrugged, trying to swallow the bitter feeling. “I’ll do it, whatever it is they want.”

 

* * *

 

Smith and Trott took him down the winding hallways, and Ross wondered if the fundamental difference between the two sides came down to the desire for straight lines or curves. He still found it strange, the way things in the base seemed so rough and unfinished. Cables were bundled along the wall, and it felt like all the working pieces of the base were exposed. People hurried along the crowded halls, carrying data chips and tablets, wearing headsets and talking. Some of them wore what looked like uniforms but most of them didn’t. To Ross’ eye, it was chaotic.

The room unsettled him with its grey walls, reminding him all too much of a cell. Even worse was the holo capture equipment set up, the metal arms curving up around the center of the room and the two chairs there. The lenses caught the bright lights, and made him think of the droids.

“You okay?” Smith asked, his voice low. He kept one hand on Ross’ arm, steadying him. Ross swallowed, trying to bury the welter of emotions, and nodded. Trott walked around the edge of the room, examining things.

“Oh good, you’re here.” A tall man with a beard strode in, carrying a tablet.

“Ross, this is Angor,” Smith introduced. “He’s one of Nano’s advisors.”

“Didn’t he have a uniform or something?” Angor asked, looking Ross over with a critical eye. Ross glanced down at the plain black shirt and grey pants he’d borrowed from Smith.

“No,” Smith frowned.

“That’s a shame, it would be a better visual,” murmured Angor. He reached out, picking at the shirt Ross wore. Smith made an annoyed face.

“This isn’t dress up hour…”

“Presentation is important,” Angor said testily. The two of them stepped to the side to snipe at each other about the day’s work. Ross tried not to listen to them, but he couldn’t find a restful point in the room. He clasped his hands behind his back, trying not to fidget.

“Breathe,” Trott said softly. He shifted into Ross’ line of sight.

Ross nodded tightly.

“Remember what we talked about,” Trott said, his voice quiet. Ross noticed the way his eyes stayed on Smith and Angor as he spoke.

“This is not an interrogation,” Ross repeated dutifully. “I don’t have to perform. Just speak the truth.”

“We will be just there, behind where you’re sitting.” Trott pointed towards an alcove just past Angor and Smith, filled with the control panels and monitors set up for the holo capture equipment behind a glass wall.

“It seems very elaborate,” said Ross, looking around.

“Angor likes his toys,” Trott said with a little shake of his head. “Only the best for Nano’s plans. She’s a big fan of using the holos to communicate with other groups.”

Trott swung his gaze back to Ross’ face.

“You can still say no.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea now,” Ross said.

 

* * *

 

Ross was careful to try to keep his gaze steady on Nano. Trott had coached him to avoid looking to the sides, and suggested closing his eyes briefly if he had to. But they were shooting the holo as one take without cuts. The equipment hummed around them, giving the air a sense of expectancy. The sound made Ross want to grit his teeth. He struggled not to twist round in his seat for a glimpse of Smith and Trott.

Nano looked more imposing, dressed more formally than any time he’d seen her before. Her high collared jacket was a pale grey, and the only decoration was the small gold insignia of the Resistance. She nodded to Angor, who flipped on the lights and the recording equipment. Ross blinked against the sudden brightness. He sat very still, upright with his hands on his knees.

“Can you tell me your name?” Nano asked, her voice more crisp and authoritative than he was used to hearing from her.

“RS-8891, squad 512 of the Fifth Legion,” Ross answered, letting himself sink back into the rote answers that were easy. There was a familiarity in this, even if everyone kept assuring him it wasn’t an interrogation. They breezed through the easy questions to establish his identification.

“Why did you help Commander Smith?” asked Nano, leaning forward slightly. Ross took a deep breath.

“I didn’t want to die there,” he said carefully. “In the First Order’s eyes, I was dead already. I thought… I don’t know what I thought any more. I just wanted a chance to stay alive, to stop fighting.”

For a moment Ross expected her to hammer him with questions, to make him repeat his explanations again and again the way Brinlew had. His heart beat faster, and he gripped his knees, feeling the sweat at the base of his spine.

“What happened to you when you were taken by the First Order?”

Ross couldn’t repress the small shudder, and he imagined he saw some satisfaction in Nano’s eyes for a moment.

“I was interrogated.” He kept his voice steady, concentrating hard on his words.

“Because you helped Commander Smith access the fighter?”

“Yes.”

“Did these interrogations involve torture?” Nano pressed, her eyes riveted on his face.

“Yes,” Ross answered reluctantly.

“What did they do to you?”

“There were sessions of questioning,” Ross said carefully. He tried to look at Nano without actually seeing her, focusing on her ear where she’d tucked her hair back. “I spent time without sleep or food.”

“When you arrived here, you had many injuries.” Nano read from a list, and Ross listened to the litany of burns, bruises, fractured bones, and cuts. Without thinking, he rubbed at the inside of his arm. The memory of pain flickered through his thoughts.

“You had what the medics thought were bite marks, pretty much from head to toe.” Nano folded the scrap of paper and looked at Ross again. “What caused that?”

“That-” Ross broke off, struggling to remain looking at Nano. He closed his eyes and took a breath.

“Cimex bugs, bed bugs. I was shut inside a box with them.”

“How long were you in this box?”

“Hard to say. At least a day. Maybe two. I’m not sure.”

Nano’s expression was grim, but she continued questioning. For a moment everything blurred. Ross swallowed his panic and tried to remain calm.

“How did you suffer the burns?” she asked.

“The droid,” Ross answered, his voice soft. He didn’t like to remember that night.

“They used a droid?”

“The interrogations are conducted with medical droids,” Ross said. “To keep prisoners alive if… They use drugs, and other things.” He knew this was the sort of thing stormtroopers should never speak about, much less to someone outside of the Order.

“What else did they do to you?”

“Just the usual,” Ross said. “They beat me, before using the droid.” He left out how much they all seemed to enjoy it.

“This is routine?” asked Nano. Ross wondered if the emotion in her voice was genuine. It couldn’t be. He didn’t believe a general would be uninformed about these things. But perhaps the First Order managed to keep this very secret. Or she was a very good actor.

“Yes,” Ross confirmed. “Everyone knows that interrogations are… violent.”

Nano straightened before her next question, pausing for a moment.

“Have you been tortured since you came to the Resistance?” she asked, her voice once more clear and determined.

“No,” Ross said, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. “I expected to be interrogated, but nothing like that has happened. Except this.”

“Are you still loyal to the Order?” Nano asked, her eyes fixed on his face. Ross opened his mouth to answer and found himself voiceless. Conflicting answers darted through his mind. The seconds ticked by, and Ross knew he couldn’t stay silent forever. He folded his arms back, gripping his wrist with one hand.

“I’ve broken the oaths I swore.” Ross didn’t know if the holo would show how his hands trembled behind his back. “I didn’t set out to leave the Order, but I have now.”

Nano smiled then, a small curve of her lips that spoke volumes about her satisfaction. Ross told himself it was nothing like Brinlew’s smile.

 

* * *

 

When the holo capture equipment turned off, Ross visibly sagged in his seat. It took all of Smith’s self control not to rush forward. In the bustle of Angor checking the file and the equipment, Smith watched as Nano leaned forward to say something to Ross. He nodded slightly and she rose. Smith didn’t say a word as she passed, not trusting himself to keep a conversation from becoming an argument. But she was much more focused on talking to Angor about the holo.

Grimly, Smith pushed out of the control room. He felt jangly and restless, like he needed to hit something or shout. Trott grabbed his arm before he made it two steps into the room. His silent warning made Smith stop for a breath, acknowledging the concern in Trott’s eyes.

“Careful,” Trott said in a low voice. He let Smith go, staying a couple steps behind him as he walked to the dais where Ross remained sitting.

“Hey buddy.” Smith crouched by Ross’ chair. “You okay?”

Ross didn’t answer for a moment. He sat there with his eyes closed, a pained look on his face. Trott stepped onto the little dais with them.

“I- I don’t know what I expected,” Ross said, with a shaky little laugh. He opened his eyes, but looked away quickly from them.

“I wish you didn’t have to hear it,” Ross continued. Smith heard the strain in his voice. He ached, wishing he had fought harder to keep this from happening. Maybe he should have convinced Ross to say no to the idea or done something better.

“If you want me to, I will go in and smash the holo before Angor copies it,” Smith said. Trott raised his eyebrows. Smith looked up at him defiantly, then back to Ross.

“I mean it.” He wanted to do something rash, to express his churning emotions.

“I just want to get out of here.” Ross looked down again, and Smith felt crushingly sad. He remembered all those long hours, his idle rambling directed at the wall and the unknown man in the cell next to his. His own sense of guilt flared, for how comparatively little he’d suffered. Smith wanted to wrap his arms around Ross, to promise that no one would ever make him live through this again. But he knew that once the holo went out, it would mean more questions and more talking. He berated himself for letting this happen.

“Let’s go,” said Trott. Smith didn’t give a damn if Nano wanted to debrief or congratulate or anything else. Trott helped Ross stand, and Smith hopped up to lead them home.

By the time they walked back to the house, Ross was shivering slightly. Smith kept close by, watching him with concern. He’d tried to talk lightly about things as they walked, but Ross stayed resolutely silent. Inside, Ross knelt to remove his boots. Smith looked helplessly over his back at Trott.

“Help him upstairs,” Trott directed in a soft voice. “Ross, do you want anything?”

Ross shook his head, his eyes staring into some middle distance. Smith wondered what he was thinking about. Something about his demeanour reminded Smith of how he’d looked on the ship after they escaped. Exhausted, haunted, worn out.

“Come on, buddy.” Smith guided him to the stairs and watched Ross mechanically climb. In his room he sat down on the edge of the bed, still staring into nothing. Smith frowned. He didn’t know what he expected after that. Anger with Nano lingered in his thoughts, anger with everyone else in command who had gone along with the idea and not protested. He felt angry at himself as well. He was at least as much to blame. He’d taken Ross in, but he couldn’t protect him from the designs of the command council.

Trott slipped in, carrying a bottle and three glasses tucked against his chest.  

“Drink up,” Trott said, handing Smith a glass. Smith recognized the bourbon, strong stuff he’d picked up in a spaceport at Corellia. It would have cost a fortune if he hadn’t been so lucky with his cards. Tom chided him for playing dangerous games, but he had taken a bottle home anyways. Smith smiled into his glass at the memory.  It smelled of vanilla and charred orange, something spicy underneath.

Trott poured one for Ross, and sat down beside him on the bed. Smith watched him gently press the drink into Ross’ hand. Ross blinked and stared down at the glass for a moment.

“It will help,” Trott promised. He clinked his glass against Ross’. For a moment Ross didn’t do anything. Then he downed the drink in one swallow. Smith smiled wryly. He wanted to do the same.

“Here,” said Trott as he took the glass. “You’re tired. It’s been a long day. Why don’t you lay down for a bit.” Smith could hear the change in his voice, the way it got deeper and smoother when Trott used the Force to augment his words. Ross nodded, and he let Trott guide him back onto the pillows. When Trott smoothed Ross’ hair with one hand, he closed his eyes. Trott kept his hand on Ross’ head for a few more moments, watching him fall asleep.

“Trott,” Smith began. “Really…” He couldn’t help but worry that Ross would be hurt, or frightened if he realized what Trott was doing.

“Would you rather stick a needle in his arm?” Trott asked, a bit testily. “It’s much gentler for him.”

“No.” Smith sat on the floor beside the bed where he could see Ross sleeping. The afternoon light softened things through the half open curtain. They were quiet for a few minutes. Smith drank his bourbon, savoring the burn in the back of his throat.

“I knew it had to be bad, but…” Smith trailed off, feeling sick and sad. Trott nodded, sipping his bourbon again.

“The First Order specializes in cruelty.” Trott gently put a hand on Ross’ chest, watching him breathe. He had that faintly distracted look that meant he was doing something with the Force.

“They certainly enjoy what they’re doing.” Smith wrapped one arm around his knees. “I don’t understand why they didn’t go after me the way they did to him.”

“There’s an incentive to punish anyone who steps out of line,” Trott said, still distant.

“I feel guilty, Trott,” Smith said in a deeply sad voice. He didn’t like to let himself sound this vulnerable, but he couldn’t help it. Hearing Ross speak about the torture, even in his brief, unemotional way, had shocked Smith more than he thought possible.

Trott glanced over at him, and shook his head. His dark eyes were sympathetic.

“Smith, you didn’t do this to him. The Order did.”

“Still. It happened because of me.”

“Someone else might have just shot him,” Trott pointed out. “Or left him in that cell block. He’s lucky it was you.”

Smith set his glass on the floor and knelt up to put his elbows on the bed. He looked at Ross. Asleep, the faint worried line between his brows was gone. Smith took one of his hands and held it, examining the callouses on Ross’ fingers. They were similar enough to his own, his fingers slightly crooked and shorter than Smith’s.

“He’ll probably sleep until tomorrow,” Trott said at last. “I don’t think I can do anything about the dreams but at least he should get some rest.” Smith heard his unspoken words, that they all needed a night uninterrupted by nightmares. He pressed a kiss to Trott’s knee, and Trott ruffled his hair. They both watched Ross sleep for a little longer. Smith said a silent prayer that things would turn out okay.

 

* * *

 

The sound of the door clicking open woke Ross from his doze. In the early hours he’d settled in one of the chairs on the balcony, aware it was just a bit too early to get up and ready for the day. Stars still sprinkled the darkness, brighter than Ross ever remembered seeing. He stretched in the chair, and flexed his hands against the prickling sensation of sitting still for too long. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes.

Trott stepped outside, his face turned towards the horizon. He shut the door carefully behind him. Ross cleared his throat, and Trott turned round.

“Oh! I didn’t know you were out here.” Trott sounded surprised. “I’ll let you be.”

“No, wait-” Ross sat up from where he slumped in the small chairs. Trott hesitated, his hand on the door back to his bedroom, where Smith was undoubtedly sleeping. He wore a long, dark red robe with gold embroidery, and wide sleeves. Something about the sight of him with his hair loose, the marks of sleep still on his face, made him seem more human. Ross realized Trott couldn’t be that much older than he was.

“I could use the company,” Ross said, forcing himself to speak.

“Alright.” Trott took the other chair, looking at him sideways. “What are you doing out here?”

“I slept a long time,” said Ross. “Thought maybe I’d just come watch the sun rise, rather than lay there.” Better to be up, not quite asleep enough for whatever nightmares might come. If he had dreamed, he didn’t remember it. Ross couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such untroubled sleep. He was rested, but he still felt strange after Nano’s version of an interrogation.

“It’s a beautiful view for it,” Trott said. “One of the things I like best about this place.”

They sat in silence for a little while, watching the skyline gradually shift colors and brighten. There were clouds, far out, splintering the light into rays of red and gold.

“Where did you live, before here?” Ross asked. It was easier to talk when they weren’t looking at each other.

“A lot of places. With Sips for a bit. Other bases.”

“But where did you come from?”

Trott shifted in his chair, and Ross could feel his eyes studying him.

“Did one of them tell you?” asked Trott, his voice resigned.

“Smith said you knew what it was like to live among strangers. Sips said we had more in common than I knew.”

“Well.” For a moment Trott was silent, and Ross felt uncomfortable for having asked. He was about to get up when Trott started speaking again.

“I grew up on Hosnian Prime,” said Trott. “My entire family lived there. I’d never even been off the planet until my mother arranged with someone in the Resistance movement to send me to Sips for training. I spent most of my time with him, went home to visit twice a year.”

He took a deep breath, and Ross stared at his hands.

“I was with Sips, when the First Order destroyed the planet.”  Trott’s voice was steady, calm. “In one moment, everyone and everything I’d ever known was gone.”

“I remember that,” Ross said softly. “The Starkiller program.” He remembered the First Order’s pride in a newer, bigger weapons system. Also the chaos that ensued when it was destroyed in a planetary cataclysm. The surviving squads had horror stories about the madness, the haphazard evacuation. So many people died. It was already one of the legends, much like the Empire’s Death Stars before it.

“So yeah, I understand how it feels to lose everything you know.” Trott sighed. “It’s been years and years now, and still sometimes…”

Ross looked to Trott, his profile lit with the early morning light. He didn’t remember the parents he had before, only growing up in the barracks with other children given to the First Order. They were his family, brothers and sisters. He thought about how much he missed them.

“I understand why you hate me.” Ross looked away. He couldn’t hate Trott, or Smith. After all, he was the one who made the choice to help them escape the cell block.

“I don’t hate you,” said Trott. He sounded faintly surprised. “Do you really think that?”

Ross shrugged uncomfortably. The steady, insidious beat of his thoughts centered on how he was hated, how he deserved to be hated by both the Resistance and the Order. How his selfishness left him no room on either side. How everything he did, everything he was, made him at best an inconvenience for the men who had taken him into their lives.

“I hate the First Order,” Trott said emphatically. “But you are not the First Order, and you shouldn’t answer for their crimes. I don’t hate you, Ross.”

Feeling unsettled and uncertain, Ross stared out at the canyon. The dawn was almost complete, light striking the rocks and leaving deep blue morning shadows in the far canyon wall.

“I’ve done things you should hate me for,” Ross said quietly. “I’ve killed people, maybe even people you knew or cared for. I’ve enforced the First Order’s will.”

“Nothing’s quite as black and white as it seems,” Trott said. “You’re here now. That’s something.”

Ross leaned forward, shoulders hunched, and stared down at his knees. He didn’t know why it surprised him so much, that Trott would extend this much forgiveness to him.

“It’s not easy to build your life from the ashes of the old one.” Trott rose from his chair, and laid a hand gently on Ross’ shoulder. “I know. But you’re not completely alone with nothing, Ross. You just have to decide what you want to do.”

“Nothing in my life was ever my decision,” Ross said, surprising himself with the amount of bitter frustration in his voice. “I don’t even know where to start, or how I’m supposed to choose.”

Trott’s hand squeezed his shoulder, reassuring and warm. Ross wanted to lean into him, close his eyes. He kept his head bowed.

“It will take some time,” Trott said. “Small things, like knowing you hate those spicy pickles Smith brings home. Work your way up to the bigger questions.”

Ross made a face, thinking of the time he’d eaten a mouthful of the burning pickles.

“Come on, let’s go make breakfast,” Trott urged. “You can help me decide.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My most especial thanks to Ghostofgatsby, who is not only a patient correspondent but an excellent editor and early reader. I have wholesale stolen a paragraph in here from one of their suggestions because the image they suggested was utterly perfect in capturing the moment. Thank you, a million times, for helping this story come to light.

The general murmur of the crowded room dimmed as someone activated a holo projector. In the cafeteria hall, Ross stopped abruptly. Someone jostled past him, and Ross clutched his tray closer to his chest. Ross watched with growing horror as he appeared a bit larger than life in the center of the hall. 

The faintly blue projections were silent for a moment, and then the sound abruptly kicked in. The room went quiet as Nano spoke. Ross watched himself, feeling strange. He could hear his voice, muffled by the sound of his heart beating too loud and too hard.

“Good god in the void,” someone seated at a table nearby said. “Didn’t know we had a goddamn stormtrooper here.”

“Can you believe this?” someone else hissed. “What the actual fuck?”

“That poor bastard.”

Ross stepped backwards, still holding his tray as if it could protect him. The whispers of the crowd rose and fell, competing with the sound of his voice and Nano’s. The smell of his food turned his stomach suddenly. He turned around, and set the tray down on the conveyor belt of dirty dishes and empty trays. Ross took off down through the halls before he could catch anyone’s attention. He kept his eyes resolutely down, walking as swiftly as he dared. Cold sweat prickled on his back. For the first time in weeks, Ross found himself afraid to meet anyone’s eyes.

Nano hadn’t said this would happen. He felt sick and dumb. He should have known. Cursing himself, Ross turned away from the hangar. He couldn’t stand the thought of facing people. Of seeing how it would change, now that everyone would know. Ross had taken for granted the acceptance and ease of the hangar crew, and not having to explain where he came from. Taking the stairs two at a time, he decided to take that winding path up to the top of the canyon that he’d walked with Sips. No one ever really went out there. He could just sit in the silence and watch the sky. Ross hurried, feeling furtive and ashamed. 

For a few hours, he sat beneath a tree. The wind rippled the long grass, a scattering of yellow and pink flowers, and the narrow leaves of the tree. Ross turned a rock over and over in his hands, studying the striated lines of color. He wished he knew anything about it. It occurred to him that he’d learned a lot about the Order, about the history of the Empire, about weapons, and about ships. But he’d never learned anything about rocks, or grass, or other languages. He wondered if there were other stormtroopers who had different lessons, or if all of them pretty much just learned those same few things. 

The sun was setting somewhere behind him, and the eastern horizon glowed purple and blue with the approach of night. Ross knew he should probably go back to the house, but he felt strangely reluctant to leave. As long as he sat here, beneath the tree, nothing could happen. 

He wasn’t surprised when Trott appeared in the twilight gloom, though he did wince at the relief in his voice.

“Thank all the stars, are you alright?” Trott stopped a foot away, the beam of his flashlight playing over Ross’ legs. “You’re not hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Ross said, standing up carefully. His knees hurt a little, but he was only stiff from sitting so still.

“We were worried something had happened to you.” Trott peered at him, and Ross could see the frown on his face even in the shadows. “No one knew where you were.”

“I just came up here to get away,” Ross said. He felt guilty about his flight.

“From the everyone seeing the holo?”

“Yeah.”

“I figured, when Smith finally said you were missing. He was worried someone had cornered you somewhere…” 

“Sorry,” Ross apologized. “I should have just gone home. But I didn’t… I just thought the quiet would help.”

“Did it?” The frankness of the question made Ross think. He shrugged, uncomfortable with admitting his uncertainty.

“Well,” Trott sighed. “Come on, you must be hungry, and it’s almost dark.”

They walked slowly back towards the canyon path, the beam of Trott’s light sweeping back and forth over the ground. Ross followed Trott’s heels, trying not to think about the gnawing hunger he felt. Stars glimmered overhead, the sky finally shading purple and deep, dark blue into black. Only the faint line of gold on the horizon remained of the day.

“Trott,” Ross asked quietly.

“Yes?” Trott paused. In the deepening gloom, his expression was difficult to see.

“Do you have any books about rocks?”

“Rocks?” Trott sounded puzzled.

“Something in basic or standard,” Ross continued, feeling tongue tied and faintly embarrassed. “Just. I don’t know anything about rocks or how they’re made or… anything really.”

“Oh.” This time Trott sounded surprised. He tapped the light against his thigh, stopping on the path.

“It’s not important,” Ross said.

“I don’t know if I do, but I can get you one if you want it.” 

“Thank you.”

“Let’s get home, and we’ll see if we have anything you want to read.” Trott put a hand on Ross’ arm, guiding him through the dark.

 

* * *

 

Pulling his head from out of the X-wing’s engine, Ross frowned at the raised voices coming from somewhere across the hangar. Tom glanced over his shoulder from where he was holding up a new pump for Ross to install. 

“Fucking…” Tom sighed, and set down the pump. “That’s definitely Smith. What the fuck is he doing.”

“Are they fighting?” asked Ross, as the sound grew louder.

“Stay here,” said Tom. Ross immediately ignored that, following Tom as he hurried towards the commotion.

The fight was fully on by the time they rounded one of the other ships to find several other mechanics and pilots standing around in a loose circle. A few of them glanced at Ross with varying degrees of sympathy or disapproval. In the center, Smith circled Rythe, one of the pilots. Blood trickled from his nose. Rythe growled something Ross didn’t understand and threw a punch towards Smith.

“You told us he was a prisoner!”

“He was a prisoner!” Smith said, his voice rising angrily. 

“He’s a goddamn First Order soldier,” snarled Rythe. Rythe was tall, his dark skin crossed with a dozen small scars from the time a shot exploded the navigation system right in his face. “He could be a spy meant to trick you!”

“He was in that cell for trying to help me escape, you idiot!” Smith punched him straight in the mouth. Rythe stumbled back and spat blood on the floor. 

“Hey, hey, hey you dipshit nerfherders!” Tom shouted, pushing people aside to get right into the middle of it. He grabbed at Smith as he swung towards Rythe again, shoving him back. Tom stretched out his arms, trying to keep them away from each other. Rythe lunged forward and Tom pushed him away.

“Little help here?” shouted Tom, his voice heavy with sarcastic annoyance. The crowd shifted restlessly as Tom dodged, trying to keep himself between Smith and Rythe. On the edge of the crowd, Ross found himself frozen. 

“What’s going on here?” Lomadia’s cold, clipped voice silenced the group. Tall and straight in her dark blue jumpsuit, she pushed a pair of pilots out of her way.

“Get the fuck out of my bay, Rythe,” Smith spat.

“Fuck you, Smith.” Rythe’s face twisted. He glanced towards Ross, disgust plain in his expression. “I’m not working with a bloody First Order spy.”

“Out!” Lomadia thundered, raising her voice. “Rythe, go to medical. Why are the rest of you all standing around? Get back to work!”

Ross wanted to shrink away from the glances and the boiling tension. He held very still as he’d learned to do in training, back straight. The others scattered back to the ships.

“I can’t believe you’re scrapping with one of your pilots,” Lomadia continued, lowering her voice. There was a grim humor to it. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m not going to put up with that shit talking,” Smith began. He wiped the back of his hand over his forehead. His eye was already swelling, a dark bruise blooming under the skin. Tom hovered nearby, a few steps back.

“You are a commander, this is not how you handle problems.” Lomadia swung her gaze to find Ross standing there, watching. She turned back to Smith, and shook her head. “I came to give you the flight plans for your mission tomorrow, but if you can’t even handle yourself with this wing…”

“I’ll take care of it,” Smith said shortly. He held out his hand, and Lomadia handed over a set of chips. Smith’s knuckles were red, his fingers gripping the chips tightly. Lomadia looked around and sighed, pulling her hair back and tying it into a ponytail.

“Go home, and take him with you. I’ll keep an eye on things in here.” She folded her arms over her chest. Smith looked as if he would protest, but Tom spoke up quickly. 

“Come on, you still have my copy of  _ A Century’s Worth of Gamorrean Pirates  _ and I want it back, I’ll walk with you.” Tom jerked his head. “Ross, come with.”

“But the engine…” Ross said weakly. He realized he was still holding the screwdriver in his hand.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” Tom pushed Smith gently, a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s take Smith home. That engine isn't going anywhere without us.”

“Okay.” Ross nodded at Lomadia, who inclined her head gravely. She walked further into the hangar bay, her stern presence sending people scurrying back to whatever work they’d abandoned. Smith stalked out of the hangar, fury radiating from him. Ross hung back while Tom jogged to catch up with Smith. He watched them, their heads inclined towards each other, Tom’s hand resting on Smith’s arm.

Trott was already there when they got back to the house. He took one look at Smith and sighed, turning to fill a bowl with cold water.

“It’s not as bad as it looks, Trott, and it was over fast.” Tom shoved Smith towards a chair. “Lom came and broke it up before it got too ugly.” 

“For fuck’s sake Smith,” Trott muttered, grabbing a cloth from the kitchen counter. He cleaned the blood off Smith’s face, matting in the hair of his beard.

“I was not about to let Rhythe get away with saying-” Smith winced as Trott rubbed his face too hard.

“You’re a commander, you can’t be fighting with people like this.”

“Kind of why I didn’t want to be one.”

“Well, here we are.” Trott sighed again. 

Anxious and sick to his stomach, Ross tried to avoid looking at Smith’s bloody face, or the angry, upset expression on Trott’s. He jumped when Tom’s hand settled on his shoulder.

“Most people don’t think what Rythe said is true,” said Tom. His dark eyes were sad and serious. “I want you to know that. I don’t think it matters if you were a soldier, or a mechanic, or where you came from.”

“Thank you.” Ross looked down at his hands, his skin reddened and dirty. Tom patted him, and Ross wished he knew what to say.

“Whatever your life was before, that’s not what it has to be now.” Tom glanced at Smith, and ran a hand through his dirty blond hair. The gesture only made it messier. “He gave me a chance, too. To be something other than what I used to be. So I know.”

“Were you in the Order?” Ross asked, surprised. He found it hard to imagine Tom as anything but the cheerful, easy going man he worked with.

“Nah, just a two bit gangster down on his luck.” Tom shrugged. “But that’s the past. What matters is who we are now, right?” Tom took the screwdriver Ross still carried, and tucked it into his belt. Ross wanted to ask Tom more, but stopped himself. It did comfort him a little, to think he wasn’t the only person with a past he didn’t want to relive.

“I’ll see you later, after Trott kicks your ass.” Tom grinned at Smith’s glare. “Trott, always nice to see you even if you’re pissed off. Come round for cards sometime, yeah?”

“We will, thanks Tom.” Trott gave him a sardonic smile, looking away from where he pressed something to Smith’s swollen cheek. Tom chuckled, and slipped out the door. Ross carefully folded himself into a chair, and stared at his hands. His face felt hot. 

“She’s sending me to deliver these fucking holos,” Smith muttered, his voice still angry but quieter now. “I’m going to have to leave in the morning. I don’t want to go, Trott.”

“Look,” Trott said, wringing out the cloth in the sink. “I decided to take Ross down to Sips’ place for a couple days. So everyone has a few days to calm down, and you don’t have to worry about us.”

“Do you think it is that bad?” Smith’s voice was soft, but Ross could hear every word.

“You will worry less if we’re out there,” Trott soothed. “Sips wanted me to come help him do some work, and I’ve been putting it off anyways.”

“Alright,” Smith sighed. He straightened from his slump and leaned forward to wrap his arms around Trott’s waist. Ross watched them, Trott’s fingers combing through Smith’s bright, messy hair. Some part of him yearned to be there, to be able to get comfort from their closeness. But they were strangers, still. A couple months, and he knew so little about them in some ways. Ross had never thought about all the things one could take for granted, being around the same people year after year. Ross thought about all the times they’d leaned on each other. The simple casual touch of people so used to one another. 

Quietly, he slipped upstairs. He felt too much in the way, and as if there was nothing he could contribute. The silence of his room only magnified his thoughts as he changed out of his work clothing. Ross hated the room sometimes. It just felt like a fancier cell, keeping him apart. But his brothers and sisters were gone, and he didn’t understand enough of the people he lived around now. Living in this Resistance base, he felt so tremendously alone. Even more now that everyone knew who and what he was. He wondered how many of them agreed with Rythe, despite Tom’s reassurances. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring sightlessly at the wall.

He wondered if his squad would see the holo. Surely the First Order would not want soldiers to see one of their own renouncing his place. But maybe they would. Maybe they would show it when they caught him and executed him. Ross wondered about it, and how inevitable it felt. His death was always meant for the First Order. Trying to run away from that felt futile. No matter what he did, it seemed, the First Order would eventually claim his life whether he wanted it to or not.

 

* * *

 

While Smith flew out with a couple of his pilots to distribute the holos to their contacts, Trott and Ross hiked down the valley to Sips’ place. They each carried a pack, and Trott grumbled frequently about the weight of the supplies, several large bottles of liquid that sloshed around in their bags. He brushed off Ross’ offer to carry more. Because they were outside, walking further from the shadow of the canyon walls, the morning sun warmed their shoulders. Ross thought that the pack was less heavy than the ones they carried in training. He didn’t mind. It was an easy pace, and the land sloped ever so gently downhill. Trott was quiet aside from his grumbles about what he saw as Sips’ unreasonable requests for Trott to bring him things. Something about it made Ross feel closer to him, a kinship of shared suffering. He walked slightly behind Trott and tried to match his pace. 

Sips’ cabin was not terribly far, only a couple hours walk from the base. In the wide river valley, the rock walls were lower and pushed further out. The trees spread their branches and formed a green oasis against the red and gold rocks. They came to a small hill where an adobe cabin stood. The railing of the wide, covered porch and the wooden door were a bright blue, in vivid contrast to the golden walls. Ross could see another building nearby, tucked into the trees, and a line of wooden fence. 

A tall, four legged creature walked around the fence, scattering the couple chickens scratching through the dirt and new grass. Ross stared at the fluffy beast, with its long legs and even longer neck. Its muzzle was black, and its fur was white and rust colored in patches. It shrieked a weird, horn like sound that reminded Ross of fuel valve alarms on fighters. 

“Hello, Tina,” Trott said sourly. 

“Tina?” Ross said hesitantly, wondering if this was not an animal and some alien he just hadn’t ever encountered. There were a few in the Resistance base, but not many. 

“Sips keeps a llama, and she’s a mean thing.” 

“Trott, are you talking shit about Tina?” Sips called out, coming out of the building behind the cabin. It was a similar adobe, the smooth walls reddish like the canyon. 

“I would never,” Trott said dryly. He crossed his arms, watching Sips pat the llama in passing. She hummed at him and ducked her head. Ross watched with fascination. 

“Tina is a lovely lady,” Sips said mildly. “And she makes great blankets.”

“We brought your damn seltzers,” Trott said, letting his pack slide to the ground. 

“Even better!” Sips grinned. “You’re just in time for lunch.” Sips hefted a basket of eggs, pale turquoise and green. He whistled, and a big brown and black dog bounded towards him. 

“When did you get a dog?” Trott asked, closing the gate behind Sips. He struggled with the latch. Tina stepped nearer, making another strange squawk and Trott ducked his head to avoid her. The llama spit angrily at him. 

“When those goddamn coyotes started trying to eat my chickens and Tina,” Sips said. “This is Laika. Laika, this is Trott and Ross.” 

Laika trotted forward, sniffing eagerly at Ross. He carefully stretched out his hand, letting the dog nose it. One ear flopped forward and the other pointed straight up as she sniffed him. Laika barked cheerfully, and wagged her tail. 

“I haven’t seen a dog since basic training,” Ross said.  

“I didn’t know they had dogs in the army,” Sips said, shifting the basket of eggs.

“Some of the officers, the trainers…” Ross trailed off. “She’s looks like them, but doesn’t act like it.” Ross watched Laika, who was as big as the dogs he remembered, but less menacing. She leaned against his legs, waiting for Ross to pet her, tall enough that he hardly had to bend down to stroke her fur.

“We saw them on guard duty, in the barracks where I grew up.” Ross scratched Laika behind the ears. “Bad idea to run if they spotted you out when you weren’t supposed to be. They’d chase you down.”

“Well, you won’t have to outrun Laika unless you just feel like racing her.” Sips whistled, and she bounded off towards the fence. Tina jogged along, clucking at the dog. 

“Is there lunch, or are you just going to stand around out here until those eggs hatch?” Trott said, grabbing his pack with a little grunt. 

“Alright, alright, come inside.” Sips rolled his eyes now. 

Ross followed them into the cabin, silently taking everything in. Every time he found himself getting used to the odd things of life in the Resistance base, something new came along like Sips’ homestead. It conjured up images of a farming planet, years back. Ross shivered, pushing away the memory of fire and the sounds of blaster fire. He didn’t even know why they had been there, or what the people had done to warrant the might of the First Order burning and destroying everything. 

The thick walls held a surprisingly bright interior, the smooth stone floor a reddish orange. The walls were painted in white and a softer blue, around a fireplace made of the rough stone pieces mortared together. Thick glass filled the windows, and there were even curtains. Ross couldn’t say why that detail surprised him so much. A rug of red and white zigzags stretched in front of the fireplace, between a sagging leather sofa and a large armchair. Just past the small kitchen were two doors, opening onto a bedroom and a bathroom. The entire place exuded a sense of comfort, the edges worn smooth by time and use. Ross didn’t know what he’d imagined, but this wasn’t it. It was restful, full of a sense of ease.

While Trott and Sips bickered in the kitchen, Ross sat down on the sofa. It creaked faintly, but it was comfortable. The leather cushions were worn smooth and shiny. He closed his eyes, counting slowly in his head. If there was any place to sense the Force, it would have to be here. He studied the patterns of shadow in his closed eyes, trying to find that strange hum of light.

Sips’ hand on his shoulder should have startled him, but it didn’t. Ross blinked, and looked up at his faint smile.

“Come on, we’re having devilled egg sandwiches.” Sips tilted his head towards the kitchen, where Trott pulled out dishes.

“What’s that?” Ross asked, wondering if Sips knew what he was trying to do.

“Only the most delicious thing you’ve ever eaten,” Sips chuckled. 

He wasn’t wrong, Ross thought. The hardboiled eggs were chopped up with pickles, onions, radishes and capers, mixed together in some kind of creamy sauce liberally spiced with something red and smoky. He ate two sandwiches on crispy toasted slices of bread, not realizing how hungry he was until he sat down at Sips’ little wooden table. It was cool and comfortable inside, out of the sun. Sips and Trott talked casually about things at the base while Ross ate. He licked his fingers, and Sips offered him a napkin.

 

* * *

 

The days passed almost too quickly, bright blue skies with enormous white clouds over gradually warming days. Ross found himself almost happy The sensation was so effortless and unexpected. There was plenty of work to do, so he was never left too restless, and he was never too much alone. If Sips was not explaining things or working nearby, Trott was. Ross pulled the early spring radishes in the garden, while Trott dug a new row for something else Sips wanted to plant. There were  so many different  plants in his garden, and they  all made some kind of food. Ross was fascinated as Sips showed him the flowers that would grow into vegetables, the vines that would grow melons. 

Laika watched them, or wandered through the brush. In the afternoon, Trott hammered together a new gate for Tina’s pen and Ross tinkered with a rusty sprinkler, trying to get it working again. Sips spent a great deal of time “supervising” the work, often with a mug in hand as he leaned on the fence or sat on the porch. Laika panted at his feet, tongue hanging out of her mouth.  

Ross thought he would be more afraid of Laika. She often wandered by, sniffing and wanting some attention. She began to drop a stick near him and wait with an expectantly wagging tail. The first few times, he just cocked his head and looked questioningly at the dog. But then Sips strode by, grabbed the stick and hurled it off through the clearing. Laika gleefully raced after it, and brought it right back. Ross picked up the game quickly, enjoying the sight of the dog bounding after the stick.

When Laika tired of the stick game, she laid on the porch and watched them with her dark eyes. She periodically patrolled around the chicken coop, or wandered along the fence of Tina’s pen. The llama watched her suspiciously, scuffing through the short grass. She seemed mildly tolerant of most creatures, largely ignoring the chickens and the dog. Tina was even sort of affectionate towards Sips. But she frequently spat and snapped at Trott. It made Ross quite wary, and he was careful in the way he moved near the fence. The llama was taller even than Ross, her head seemingly incongruous and small atop the long neck. She seemed undecided on what to make of him.

Ross was surprised to find Sips had an eclectic selection of books. He found what must be a child’s textbook on geology, fairly simplistic but nonetheless engaging. After dinner, while Sips and Trott talked on the porch, Ross paged through it. He read slowly and carefully, absorbing the information on the formation of rocks and the different types. When he wasn’t busy helping Sips fix things, he studied the various rocks he found and tried to match them to the concepts in the book. He studied the striations in the red rocks, the layers that spoke of years compacted in the ground. The golden stones were various shades of pale, speckled with tiny crystalline bits. He knew it was somewhat useless knowledge. What did a mechanic or a soldier need to know about how layers of sediment turned into stone? But Ross liked the knowing, liked being able to look at things and have names for them. 

Trott groused at Sips for the chores, and Sips made sarcastic comments about Trott’s work ethic. But it was a well worn groove and Ross never felt like it was ever serious. Their banter reminded him of the complaints and trash talk of his squad. It felt comfortable and familiar. In the evenings, Trott spent a good hour or two soaking in the tub while Sips and Ross sat on the porch with Laika. They took turns throwing the stick until it was too dark to see.

The nights were still chilly, especially without the insulation of the canyon walls. Ross and Trott slept on the floor in front of the fireplace, wrapped in soft blankets apparently knitted out of llama wool by someone in one of the small farms further down the river. Ross found it easier to sleep, knowing someone was there even if a span of floor separated them. There were often moments where he held his breath, turning his chaotic thoughts round and round to work himself up to speaking. But the moment would escape him, and Trott would fall asleep first. Ross would listen to his breath as he drifted off to dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

Ross blinked, waking slowly against the early morning light filtering through the curtained windows. The fire in the stone hearth was down to glimmering coals, still warm. He could see Trott’s blankets folded neatly in a stack between him and the sofa, and hear the sounds of someone moving in the kitchen. Feeling pleasantly rested, Ross let himself just lay there and enjoy the moment. It was rare he felt so at ease. The sound of low voices carried in the small cabin, and Ross found himself listening.

“You’re so easy on him,” Trott grumbled. “You were never that nice to me.”

“You didn’t need me to be nice to you,” Sips countered with a small, rumbling laugh. 

“It’s just unsettling,” Trott complained. “All this ‘good work!’ and putting your arm on his shoulders. You’ve gone soft, old man.”

“Have you ever seen anyone who needed a hug more than that guy?” Sips asked. Ross heard the clink of a spoon in a mug. He wondered if he should get up, let them know he was awake. They wouldn’t talk like this if they knew he was listening. But curiosity got the better of him.

“What are you talking about, Sips?”

“I’m disappointed, Trott, that I didn’t teach you to observe more closely.” 

“What, what am I missing?” Trott asked with exasperation. Ross heard the sound of coffee being poured, the rich smell drifting through the room. He hadn’t known coffee could taste this good, until this part of his life.

“The way he looks at everyone like he is waiting for orders,” Sips said in a mild voice. “The way he works so diligently at anything you ask him to do, even if he doesn’t understand or know how. How he relaxes and lights up at the slightest bit of praise. He’s scared to death, Trott, and light years from anything familiar. So he’s trying to be good soldier in hopes that he’ll figure out what he’s supposed to do.”

Ross squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, breathless at the simple explanation.

“What am I supposed to do about that?” Trott countered. “We’ve given him a room, tried to give him the space to come to grips with everything. I don’t push him. Smith’s got him working in the hangar so he has something to do. I’ve given him everything he needs to-”

“Did you ever ask him what  _ he _ needed?” interrupted Sips. 

Ross tried not to move in the silence that followed.

“I hate it when you’re right,” Trott said finally, setting his mug on the table with a thump.

“You know what it is like to lose your family,” Sips said quietly. “You know what it is like to feel alone. That’s what he’s going through now, Trott. Before all this happened, he’s never even slept in a room by himself before. Now he has to deal with having left behind his entire life, and adjusting to a new one. That’s a lot for one person to carry before you even get into the politics.”

Trott made some sound of agreement. There was a rustle as he unwrapped the bread, the clink of cutlery. On the floor, Ross made himself be still and silent. It was strange, startling to hear Sips speak so candidly of things Ross hadn’t been able to articulate to himself in his head. 

“What can I do?” Trott finally asked. There was a sadness in his voice, a weary resignation.

“I know you’re not the touchy feely type like Smith.” Trott snorted, and Ross could hear the grin in Sips’ voice as he continued. “But loosen up around him. That boy is starving for affection and explanations. He’d probably follow you to the end of the galaxy if you gave him a hug and told him to do some chores.”

“He freezes when anyone gets near him,” said Trott dubiously.

“He said something to me yesterday, about how confusing it was not to have rules for everything. He just doesn’t know what he’s allowed. It doesn’t help that you’re so damn grim.”

“I mean, I thought - we’ve tried not to be too demonstrative in front of him because he seemed so shocked about the idea of relationships.”

“I’m not saying bang him, Trott, just be a bit more like Smith. Not a complete horndog, just friendly.”

Trott snorted, a laugh Ross recognized. 

“Alright, Sips, I’ll try.”

“Good job, Trott.”

“Now you’re just making fun of me.”

“I would never.” Sips’ voice was thick with humor. Ross heard his footsteps approaching. He shut his eyes and tried to breathe slowly, like he was still asleep. 

“Come on, sleepyhead, it’s time for breakfast.” Sips’ hand ruffled his hair. Ross opened his eyes and rolled over to see Sips crouching there. Sips winked at him, and held out a mug of coffee.

“Have you ever been fishing, Ross?” asked Sips.

“No,” Ross said, sitting up and shaking his head. He took the mug of coffee, inhaling the aroma. He wondered if Sips knew he’d been listening. 

“Great! Today, we’re going to teach you how to catch a fish.” Sips rubbed his hands with glee. At the little kitchen table, Trott rolled his eyes. 

“Teach him how to clean the fish too, why don’t you.”

“Don’t worry Trott, we won’t make you clean them all.” 

Ross stretched, and climbed to his feet for another day. Trott poured more coffee into his mug and sniffed dubiously at the cream jug.

“You’re not giving me llama milk, are you?” he asked Sips.

“Tina wouldn’t like that at all,” Sips said blandly. Trott set the jug down with a suspicious look.

 

* * *

 

They were seated in the shade under one of the low trees that somehow grew out of a crack in the rock. This part of the river was deeper, pools and crevices in the rock worn smooth by running water. Out in the center it was more than waist deep, and cold.  

“Why did you do it?”

Ross glanced at Sips. He appreciated the questions, if only because it meant the Jedi wasn’t reading his mind.

“Do what?”

“Leave the Order.”

“Oh.” Ross looked back at the water, reflecting the light in brief flashes as it rippled over the stone. He pondered the question, watching the fishing line bob gently with the current. 

“When they left me at the outpost I was sure I was going to die.” Ross looked up at the sky, the impossible blue arching overhead with a few thin lines of cloud. “You learn to keep moving. Anyone who can’t gets left behind. Anyone who can’t fight, can’t get up, doesn’t make it back.”

“Not much in the way of field medicine, I guess.” Sips spoke up in the silence Ross left.

“Not really,” agreed Ross. He shifted his grip on the fishing rod. The battlefield felt so far away from the here and now. A brief wave of panic and nausea gripped him, just thinking about it.

“I remember laying there, thinking that they didn’t even try to get me up. I was so scared. I didn’t want to die, on some planet I didn’t even know the name of, alone.” Ross glanced at Sips, then back at the river.

“So now you know,” Ross laughed bitterly. “I’m not the empire-defying hero the Resistance wants me to be.”

“What Nano wants you to be isn’t the truth, no.” Sips shrugged. 

“I wasn’t even really thinking of anything but just getting away, at first. Later after the prison cell, I knew I couldn’t go back. That what I’d done to survive just meant the First Order would never trust me again.”

“There’s no shame in surviving, Ross.”

“Oh but there is,” Ross said, his voice angry and sad all at once. “I killed an officer. I saw Smith shoot two soldiers and I did nothing. I let myself put my own life ahead of the needs of my squad, of the Order itself.”

“You did these things,” Sips agreed. “But what you did is very human. None of us want to die.”

“Dying for the First Order was my duty. I failed it.”

“A corrupt and broken system taught you that your life had no meaning outside of the role they assigned you.” Sips looked very pensive, watching his line drift in the water. “But here you are. You saved yourself from it, and that’s quite an accomplishment.”

“It doesn’t feel that way.”

“It won’t, for a long time. But one day you’ll realize how far you’ve come from that battlefield.”

Ross nodded uncertainly. They sat in silence, and Ross pondered. He held the fishing rod loosely in his hands, watching the way the line moved with the current. So far, they hadn’t caught anything. But Sips was adamant that the fish were lazy, only swimming round a couple hours into the day before they took an afternoon nap.

“I can accept the idea that survival was something I did,” Ross said at last. “But now, this is… harder to accept. Now I’m working for the people who kill the soldiers I grew up with, my friends.”

“A harder nut to crack,” Sips said. “Something you’ll have to come to terms with. But also, what you’ve done for the Resistance is also part of your survival. Ultimately, maybe you don’t want to be with the Resistance. That doesn’t have to be your path.”

“It feels like the only path.”

“You’re not a prisoner, Ross.”

“I know,” he sighed. “But where could I go? I’m realizing how little I know about how anyone else lives. Everything’s so much more complicated than I imagined.”

“Well, that’s the truth no matter what.” Sips leaned back against the tree. “You aren’t alone though.”

“Know a lot of ex-stormtroopers?” Ross regretted the sarcasm in his voice almost instantly.

“No, but I was thinking Trott and Smith.” Sips twitched his rod, still watching the line in the water. 

Ross nodded, chewing on his lip.

“It’s okay to ask for what you need, Ross. Even if it is just a hug.”

“What if I don’t know what I need?”

“That’s okay,” Sips said. “Just say that. They want to help you, they aren’t going to be mad.”

Sips’ line jerked suddenly, and he sat up with a whoop of delight. Ross watched him hoist the fish out of the water, its scales shimmering with a rainbow as it thrashed around.

“Would you look at that?” Sips grinned. “Dinner.” 

 

* * *

 

On the last night of their stay, Ross sat on the porch with the geology book in his lap. He threw a stick for Laika, watching her bound through the grass in the twilight. In her pen, Tina scratched at the dirt while she ate. He could hear the clatter of Trott washing plates inside. 

“You can take the book with you, if you want.” Sips sat beside him. 

“Thanks,” Ross said, closing it carefully. The last bits of sun trickled gold and faded between the trees. Grass tickled his ankles. Ross had learned how much he liked the feeling of walking barefoot here.

“I’m worried about going back,” Ross said in a quiet voice. He stared out into the growing dark. 

“About seeing other people?”

“About them knowing what I am, hating me for it.”

“Most people are decent, Ross, but there’s always going to be a few assholes.” Sips put his arm around Ross’ shoulders. 

Trott carried out mugs of tea, some odd thing Sips favored. It was slightly sweet, made from the bark of one of the small trees growing in the canyon. He settled on the other side of Ross.

“I think most of the people we know are going to be fine,” Trott said after a pause, holding his cup in both hands. “Nano said aside from a few vocal people, the response has been quite positive.”

“Nano said?” Ross felt startled by that. For a few days, he’d convinced himself nothing existed beyond the bounds of this part of the valley.

“Yeah, I called in to see how it was going before we head back.” Trott took a sip of his tea.

“Be nice to have some quiet around here again, though I guess I’ll have to do my own chores.” Sips sighed dramatically.

“Could probably train Laika to do some of them,” Ross said thoughtfully, reaching out to scratch the dog’s ears. 

“Probably,” Sips agreed. “She’s a far better student than Trott ever was.”

“She doesn’t have thumbs,” Trott countered.

“She’s not mean to Tina,” Sips said.

“Fuck Tina,” Trott said under his breath.

“Trott!”

“What?”

“She’s very sensitive, you can’t just say things like that.”

Ross smiled, listening to Trott’s litany of complaints about Tina, and Sips’ impassioned defense. Laika leaned against his legs, panting. As the light faded, he wished he could just stay here.

 

* * *

 

The hike back wasn’t much easier than the one out, despite the lighter backs. It was all uphill, slow and steady. Ross could feel the tension in his calves by the time they made it home. Sweat stuck his shirt to his back. 

Smith was already there, sprawled with one leg up on the back of the sofa. 

“About time,” he said, with a grin. Trott dropped his bag on the floor, and threw himself onto Smith.

“Trott!” Smith grunted. “You stink.” 

“Shut up,” Trott mumbled, pressing his face into Smith’s neck.

“I’m going to shower,” Ross said. He set his bag down more carefully. Smith waved him up to the bath, his cheek resting against Trott’s hair. He reached out, clasping Ross’ hand for a moment in passing. Ross smiled, feeling a little wistful. He knew they probably needed a moment, and if he didn’t take a shower now they’d be in there for an hour. 

 

* * *

 

“Present time!” Smith crowed, gleefully wrapping his arms around Trott. His excitement made him jittery. He’d managed to wait until after they ate at least.

“What nonsense is it this time?” teased Trott, shaking the packet.

“What do you think?” Smith nuzzled into Trott’s hair. He watched with boundless delight as Trott unwrapped the pajamas.

“These are indecently short,” Trott laughed. He held up the pajamas, the fabric loose and shimmery in his hands. The turquoise blue made Smith think of the ocean on Corellia, and Trott standing in the edge of the water in the sunlight.

“You’ll thank me come summer, when you have shorts to wear.” 

“Thank you.” Trott kissed his cheek, leaning into him.

Smith scrambled up, and dug into his rucksack. He tossed a package at Ross, who caught it reflexively.

“What’s this?” He stared at the packet, curious. Belatedly Smith realized he probably didn’t know any of the characters on the wrapping. One of these days, they were going to have to teach him to read more than just basic.

“Your present!” Smith grinned. “I always bring Trott something, so I thought I’d get you something. You know. Presents for everyone!” 

Trott raised his eyebrows, folding his own gift. Smith sat down beside him, eagerly watching Ross open his gift.

“You’re about the same size as me, so it should fit,” continued Smith. “And I thought you might like to have something of your own, so…” He watched, holding his breath as Ross folded back the paper. He’d found a pair of pajamas in a dark blue so rich it was almost black. They were a bit more severe than the sort of things he bought Trott, but Smith didn’t think Ross showed much inclination to dress up like a dancing Twilek for bed. The hems of the pants and the shirt were embroidered with a simple pattern of interlocking squares in silver. 

“If you don’t like them, it’s okay,” Smith said as the silence stretched on while Ross looked at the pajamas. He felt Trott’s hand gently take his own and squeeze reassuringly.

“What?” Ross raised his eyes, his expression puzzled. “No, I like them. I just… I’ve never had anything like this.” He ran his fingers over the fabric, and the color shifted in the light.

“This is much too nice for me, Smith.”

“What? No!” Smith shook his head. “I am an excellent bargain hunter. Tell him, Trott!”

“He is uncannily adept,” Trott admitted, nudging Smith playfully. “He probably gave the merchant a handjob.”

“Trott!” Smith laughed. “I did not, I just haggled!” 

“Sure.” Trott raised his eyebrows, grinning. 

“Besides, we keep meaning to get you some new things and never do it,” Smith said, looking back at Ross. 

“Thank you,” Ross said in a quiet voice. He glanced at Trott, who was smoothing the gossamer silk of his gift. “Thanks for not dressing me up like Trott. I don’t know I need to show that much leg.”

Smith guffawed without thinking. Trott looked up, furrowing his brow.

“Did you just make a joke?” Smith laughed. “I think you might have spent too much time with Sips, because that sounded like something he’d say.”

Ross smiled back, the corner of his mouth lifting in a way that Smith found both amusing and rather attractive.

“Why am I afflicted with so many insufferable men in my life…” grumbled Trott. 

“Because we’re handsome and fantastic and helpful,” Smith said.

“Well, at least Ross is helpful and good looking,” Trott said. “Speaking of, the dishes need doing.” He swatted at Smith, and rose up with a laugh.

 

* * *

 

In the evening, the lights glowed a soft amber. Smith stretched out on the sofa, running a hand through Trott’s hair. Trott was using Smith as a pillow, reading something. It was late, and Smith was surprised they were still downstairs. Trott often retreated up to the quiet and privacy of their bedroom after dinner. But tonight Trott showered, then came back down to read while Ross tinkered with a moisture level monitor and asked Smith the occasional question. Trott wore the pajamas Smith brought back for him, the turquoise silk as perfect as Smith had imagined when he found it in the crowded market. He always tried to bring Trott back something, little gifts to let Trott know he was never entirely out of Smith’s thoughts. Now he could buy things for Ross as well, though perhaps not the same things he got Trott. Still, Smith was pleased at how good he looked in his new pajamas. Trott’s legs were bare, tangled with Smith’s, the shorts bright against his skin. 

Right now, Smith was fairly certain Ross had dozed off, sitting on the floor at the other end of the sofa. The back of his neck was sunburned, fading red down into the collar of his shirt. If he stretched a bit, he could nudge Ross’ shoulder with his foot. When Smith shifted, Trott nudged him.

“Don’t,” Trott said absently, his voice soft. “Let him sleep.”

“That probably isn’t very comfortable,” Smith whispered back.

“He seems to sleep better if he falls asleep around someone else.” Trott yawned and turned a page. Smith tucked a wayward strand of hair behind Trott’s ear.

“Huh.” Smith watched Ross for a moment. “Are we all going to start sleeping in the living room?”

“No,” Trott said. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then-”

“Just let him sleep a bit, Smith.” Trott sighed and closed his book. Smith tightened his arm around Trott, hugging him closer. Trott shifted his head, looking at Ross. Smith wondered what he was thinking. During dinner, they told him stories about Sips and his weird little farmstead. Ross seemed quite enamoured of the place, which Smith found unexpected. He had worried being alone with the two Jedi would be stressful for him, as much as Ross seemed a little more at ease around Trott. Smith liked Sips plenty, but he was still unpredictable and weird even on the best of days. But apparently, it was a good break. It made Smith glad.

“Sips said we should be more present with him,” Trott whispered. “Told me to be more like you with him.”

“How so?” asked Smith.

“Said he’d never seen a man who needed a hug so bad in his life.” Trott sounded a bit mournful and Smith tightened his grip.

“We can do that.” Smith was used to the easy camaraderie of people who fought together and spent a lot of time in cramped, close quarters.

“They’re copying the holos and sending more out,” Smith whispered. “I’m worried for him, Trott. Nano’s already talking about having him speak face to face with people.”

“I can see why she’d want to do that.”

“Doesn’t make it less crazy.” Smith nuzzled Trott’s hair, taking comfort in his familiarity. 

“They want him to be obedient,” Trott mused. “A good soldier, ready with the party line and all the right things to say. A poster boy for the Resistance’s next wave.”

“I think this is wrong,” Smith said. “We shouldn’t be doing this to him.”

Trott sighed heavily, lacing his fingers with Smith’s. They laid there in the quiet, and Smith was glad to have a moment that felt so at home. Even having Ross there didn’t lessen the sense of peaceful, familiar comfort. Smith was getting quite used to having him around. 

“You are too good of a man, Smith, for any of us,” Trott finally said, yawning.  

“Not too good though,” Smith chuckled in Trott’s ear. “I still want to take you to bed and do terrible, terrible things to you.” He enjoyed the way Trott shivered at his breath.

“Incorrigible.” Trott twisted, tilting his face up so they could kiss. “You have to wake him up and get him to bed.”

Trott untangled himself from Smith, and with a deliberate sway headed upstairs. Smith resisted the urge to whistle at him. Instead he sat up and looked at Ross, sleeping peacefully at the foot of the sofa. He almost didn’t want to wake him. As lightly as he could, Smith ran a hand over his head. Ross’ hair was growing out from the short buzz, and it was dark as Nano’s. He could almost twine a bit of it between his fingers.

“Ross,” Smith said, squeezing his shoulder. Ross blinked twice, then looked up at Smith. 

“You’ll hate me in the morning if I let you sleep sitting like that,” Smith cajoled. He helped Ross stand up, setting the little piece of machinery on their table. 

“Is it late?” Ross asked, his voice low and sleepy.

“Late enough.” Smith slung an arm around his shoulders, guiding him upstairs and to his room. When Ross just sprawled face down, Smith sat on the edge of his bed. Smith watched him for another moment as Ross curled up onto his side, face pressed into the pile of pillows.

“Gonna go to sleep okay?” Smith half wanted to curl up there and hug Ross. He wondered off and on if Ross was lonely, if he ever missed sleeping in a barracks. Maybe he’d just ask next time. Trott said he didn’t wake up screaming once out there at Sips’ place. 

“Mmhmm.” Ross nodded, eyes closed. Smith let himself rub Ross’ head again. Gently, Smith tucked a blanket around him. Only when he was sure that Ross was sleeping again did he head to his own bed.

 

* * *

 

Nano grinned, looking pleased as she strode confidently through the hangar. Reluctantly, Ross wiped his hands and climbed down from the X-wing to stand beside Tom. He tried not to look at the other people in the hangar, moving closer or just pausing in their work to listen. Smith hovered close. He watched Ross inscrutably from just behind Nano’s shoulder.

“Congratulations,” Nano said. Her uniform wasn’t much different from anyone else’s, save for the the golden pins at her collar. Ross still found it surprising how small she was, standing next to Smith.

“For?” Ross raised his eyebrows, puzzled. He tucked the rag into his belt and straightened. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Tom standing a little straighter too.

“For the excellent work you’ve done for the Resistance.” She half turned, making her voice carry. “Your example is inspiring others across the galaxy, across the entire breadth of civilization.”

“That might be an exaggeration,” Smith said, lips twisted in a wry smile Ross recognized. He seemed uneasy, and that made Ross uneasy too.

“Well.” Nano smirked ever so slightly. “It’s enough that we’re on the cusp of forming a major new alliance with some of the Core World families.” This statement kicked off a rush of murmurs around them, and even Smith looked surprised.

“They’d like to meet with you,” Nano continued. She switched her gaze to Ross, her eyes electric. “So I am sending you to Duro-”

“Duro?” Ross started, feeling the surprise like a physical blow. Duro was deep in the heart of the First Order’s territory.

“What?” Smith’s voice pitched up, clearly shocked. The murmurs rose again. Nano turned her head slightly and Ross could see the dark fire in them as she fixed her gaze on Smith.

“Well, I certainly don’t need to find you a pilot since your friend Smith is one of the best we’ve got.” There was an edge to her voice, something under the laughter. It chilled Ross. Smith opened his mouth, clearly intent on arguing.

“We’ll talk about the details tonight, maybe over dinner?” Nano smiled brilliantly again and reached out to clasp Ross’ arm. “I’m so glad you’re with us now, Ross. We’re going to do great things.”

Ross nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He shook Nano’s hand. His ears buzzed with a white noise. Part of him wanted to just fall in line, to obey with the same unquestioning obedience he’d learned. Part of him wanted to push back, to say that just because he was alive and out didn’t mean he wanted any part of the Resistance, any more than the First Order. 

Smith clasped his shoulder, brow furrowed but his touch reassuring. Ross watched him walk after Nano.

“Help me with this strut, will you?” Tom’s voice shook him out of his puzzled silence, and Ross turned gratefully back to the work at hand. He concentrated on metal, on fitting the pieces together. They worked solidly, side by side. Tom whistled songs Ross didn’t know, but even that was a sort of comfort. He lost himself in the rhythm of his work, and tried not to think about what might be ahead.

 

* * *

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Trott’s voice was close by, heavy with resignation and worry. 

Smith kept his eyes closed, sprawled facedown on the bed. He felt the mattress shift with Trott’s weight, the warmth of him settling down on Smith’s thighs. Smith grunted slightly. He wasn’t sure if he’d had enough wine to deal with the day. Having Nano over for dinner wasn’t terribly unusual, but it hadn’t happened since Ross came to stay with them. Ross was reserved and formal, unusually quiet all during the meal. Smith couldn’t tell if Nano was ignoring it, or just didn’t see his discomfort. But Trott kept the conversation moving, and they managed a respectable meal on short notice. Smith stomped upstairs to fling himself across the bed the minute Nano left. It was petty, but Smith was exhausted and angry.

“We both think this is a spectacularly bad idea, but you know there’s no stopping Nano when she’s gotten her teeth into something.” Trott spoke quietly as he pushed Smith’s shirt up, rubbing his hands into Smith’s lower back where it ached the most. An old injury had never quite healed and sometimes too much time sitting made his back hurt. His fingers traced over the faint scar running parallel to his spine and Smith shivered.

“At least you’ll be there,” Trott said. “He won’t have to be completely on his own.”

“This is too dangerous,” Smith finally said, twisting his head to one side. He puffed out the breath he’d held.

“I agree,” Trott said. “That’s why I’m going, too.”

“She’s not going to like that.”

“I don’t give a damn, she’s not my master.” 

Smith relaxed into the bed, a feeling close to relief making some of his tension dissipate. 

“You’re always welcome on my ship.” He closed his eyes, humming in the back of his throat as Trott dug his fingers into the muscles of his back.

“I should hope so, considering that one time-”

“You asked me what my fantasy was!” Smith laughed. He felt Trott shift forward on his back.

“I was not expecting you to want to fuck over the flight deck.”

“I don’t know why, Trott, it seems pretty obvious.”

“I figured you were the sort who would want costumes, or to re-enact those romance novels you read.” Smith could hear the smile in Trott’s voice, picturing the way his cheeks curved with that wide, wicked smile. 

“We could totally do that.” Smith pondered that thought.

Trott ran his hands up Smith’s back, smoothing them over his shoulders. 

“If anyone’s wearing that gold outfit, it is you,” Trott declared.

“Aww, Trott.”

“Nope, no arguing,” laughed Trott. “Besides, it suits you.”

“But Trott, you’re so pretty…” Smith closed his eyes and groaned as Trott’s hands dug into his back again.

“So are you, when you’re on your knees.” Trott’s breath was hot on the back of his neck. “You know, Ross is in the bath. We should make the most of the moment.”

Smith hummed again. Trott slid off to one side, landing in the pillows with a grin. They kissed with a frantic urgency they hadn’t really needed since the days when they were still sneaking around, assuming Sips didn’t know about them. Smith rolled on top, and Trott hooked one leg over him. He was just about to slide his hand down the front of Trott’s trousers when a knock on the door startled them both. Smith groaned, and rolled away. Trott pushed himself up against the headboard, finger combing his hair back into some order.

“Come in!” Smith shouted, checking to make sure he didn’t have an obvious erection. Ross stuck his head round the door, his hair damp and messy.

“I just- oh shit, I’m sorry-” He blushed to see them sitting there on the bed. 

“It’s fine, Ross.” Smith laughed and waved him into the room. “Come sit down with us. I was just whining and making Trott rub my back.”

“That is remarkably mostly true,” Trott observed wryly, twisting his hair back from his face. 

“Come here,” Smith said. He patted the bed beside him, pushing a pillow out of the way. “Heaven knows the bed is big enough for four, we’ve had at least that-”

“Smith!” Trott elbowed him.

“Well,” Ross said. His cheeks were pink in the lamplight, and Smith couldn’t help but laugh again despite Trott’s sharp elbow. Ross sat hesitantly on the side of the bed, and Smith leaned over to pull him closer. 

“We’re all going to sit here and ignore the dishes,” Smith declared. He put his arms around the shoulders of Trott and Ross on either side of him, settling back comfortably. 

“Are we really?” Trott heaved a sigh.

“Yes,” Smith said emphatically. He turned his head slightly, looking at Ross. “I like your hair like this.”

“This?” Ross dubiously touched it, the damp spikes sticking out in all directions.

“It works,” Smith said. “Now that it is a little longer, you can see the color it is better.” His hair was dark, but not fully black. More like a brown so deep it was almost black.

“Longer hair just itches under a helmet.”

“Well, good thing you don’t need to wear a helmet now.” Smith ran his fingers through it, making the spikes stand up straight. 

“Did you need something, Ross?” Trott asked.

“Not really, no.” Ross shrugged, dropping his gaze to his lap. Smith stroked his hand down the back of Ross’ head, to the short hair at the nape of his neck. He could feel the tension in the muscle there.

“I’m sorry that was such an awful time,” Smith said, his voice quiet and low. He pressed his fingers firmly into Ross’ neck, trying to knead away the tightness.

“Are we really going to Duro?” asked Ross.

“We are.” Smith sighed heavily. 

“I’ll come with you,” Trott said. Ross turned his head slightly to look at him.

“You won’t be alone,” Smith reassured him. He wanted to pull Ross into his arms, and hug him until he stopped looking so quietly worried.

“Thank you.” Ross closed his eyes, and heaved a deep breath. 

“We can’t leave all those dishes,” Trott grumbled after they’d sat in silence for a bit. “They aren’t going to magically do themselves.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Ross offered, opening his eyes. “I’m not really tired yet anyways.”

“I’ll help you.” Trott crawled across Smith’s legs to stand up and stretch. He gave Smith a skeptical look.

“I’m going to stay right here,” Smith yawned. “Come back soon, before I fall asleep.”

Trott rolled his eyes, but Smith was sure Ross smiled. 

 

* * *

 

The blue sky curved up, filled with white clouds from horizon to horizon. It was one of those cool, sunny days that felt too perfect to be real. The low trees stretched their crooked branches over the field of pale grass and small flowers.

“It is beautiful up here,” Trott said. “I should come out here more often.” 

Ross nodded, looking around. He skipped the group runs now, feeling strange and awkward. Instead he jogged a solitary path around the top of the canyon. He was getting to know the land much better.

“So I was thinking about this mission,” Trott began, still staring off at the view from the top of the canyon. “It’s going to be hard on you, going to Duro.”

“I suppose it is.” Ross tried to sound neutral about it. He could tell Trott and Smith were not thrilled with the idea, even if they had agreed with Nano about the importance of the mission. But he didn’t want to seem ungrateful, or afraid.

“I thought it might help you, if I taught you some of the things I’ve taught Smith.”

“What things?”

“Sort of mental exercises,” Trott explained. “How to calm yourself, to keep from losing your mind with panic or fear.”

“Is this like Sips and his sensing the Force trick?”

“Not exactly.” Trott glanced at Ross, smiling ever so slightly. “Did he do that with you?”

“It was strange,” Ross said. He didn’t want to admit he’d tried to do it a few times himself without success.

“We can do that too, if you want to try.” Trott stretched his arms over his head, standing on his toes. Ross thought he looked very at home in this landscape. Something about the severity of the horizon, the colors, suited Trott. 

“How long have you lived here?” he asked, instead of answering Trott’s unspoken question.

“A few years, off and on.” Trott shaded his eyes, looking down the canyon in the direction of Sips’ place. “After Hosnian Prime was destroyed, Sips moved out here and I came with him.”

“It seems like he’s been here forever,” Ross objected.

“That’s Sips for you.” Trott grinned. “Smith and I have a running bet about whether any of the stories he’s told about where he came from are true. He changes it every time you ask.”

Ross pondered that. He couldn’t know where he came from, he realized, unless one counted the First Order’s training facilities. But even that was some place he didn’t know the name of. It was a barracks, on a planet that was entirely the First Order’s. He tried to remember what the sunrise looked like, standing in line for the first drills. All he could think of was the way his eyes burned from staring at the sun, the harshness of the red behind his eyelids when he blinked, the tension in his face from keeping them open to avoid getting shouted at. To close your eyes in the face of the enemy was cowardice. To close your eyes in the face of your superiors was defiance.

“Ross?” Trott asked quietly. “Are you alright?” He looked up at Ross, standing closer, one hand hovering just by Ross’ elbow.

“Yes,” answered Ross reflexively.

“You don’t have to say that if you’re not actually alright.”

Ross nodded. He folded his arms behind his back, one wrist clasped loosely. 

“Come on, let’s sit here on these rocks and I’ll teach you some things to help you on this trip.” Trott stepped back, waving a hand.

They stayed outside for the rest of the afternoon, Trott patiently walking Ross through small meditations and breathing exercises. Each one was meant to help him keep his head in the face of danger and pain. It surprised Ross how different Trott was like this, compared to the fearsome, light saber wielding Trott or even the mildly cranky Trott of everyday life. He was so different that Ross didn’t even flinch when Trott took his hand, slotting their fingers together.

“Okay, so let’s try the breathing and counting one more time,” Trott said. “And we’ll do Sips’ little force trick, yeah?” He grinned, squeezing Ross’ hand. 

Ross nodded, and closed his eyes. Trott’s fingers were long, and Ross could feel the callouses at the top of his palm that were probably from holding his lightsaber or some other weapon. He was always looking for familiar things like that.

“Breathe in, let go,” Trott said quietly. “One, and two, and three…” Ross tried to be still, watching the darkness behind his eyelids. Trott’s thumb rubbed over the back of his hand. Somewhere in the dark, the colors changed. Ross caught his breath, and immediately tried to get back into the easy pattern of Trott’s counting. He tipped his head back, and it felt like looking into the night sky full of stars. He felt very small, in the vast scheme of things. He felt the gentle pressure of Trott’s fingers increase for a moment, the shift of light and shadow all around them. 

“As hard and terrible as things get,” Trott said, “I take comfort in knowing this is always here, and it connects us.” 

Ross nodded without thinking.

“Is it alive?” he asked. Ross stretched his free hand forward, curious about the way the Force seemed to move around them. The hair on the back of his arms and neck rose. But it was more from wonder than fear.

“Well that’s a question I’m not sure anyone’s answered.” Trott sounded wry. “It’s something. I think it is alive the way a planet is alive, and maybe just on a scale too big to make sense. But there’s a lot philosophical rambling on the subject. Get Sips started sometime.” 

“Huh.” Ross tried to keep his breath deep and even. He felt tired, but strangely good.

“Ever swim in an ocean?” Trott asked.

“No.”

“We should, sometime. Maybe when we get back from Duro.”

“Are we coming back?” Ross couldn’t help sounding morose.

“We’re coming back,” Trott said. He squeezed Ross’ hand, and the lights of the Force grew brighter for a moment. Ross held on, as tightly as he dared.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate chapter was a long time coming, but I hope it is worth the wait. This one's violent, though not quite at the level of the first. Thank you to everyone who has encouraged the writing of this story that means so much to me.

Wearing a quilted jacket in bright blue and red, Tom swaggered up to the counter where the spaceport tax officers sat. He leaned there, bantering cheerfully with the green skinned alien wielding various stamps. Trott hovered just behind him, looking more severe and sober in grey clothing, the cowl pulled up around his face. The little office was open to the bustle of the spaceport, and the rumble of activity and voices remained constant.

“Relax,” Smith said in a low voice. He leaned against the wall beside Ross, one foot up and his arms crossed. He was dressed almost identically to Tom.

Ross tried to emulate his slouch, feeling awkward. The new clothes were strange and slightly uncomfortable, layers of fabric. He tried to think of it as armor. But it felt too insubstantial, and too bright of a blue. For the first time in many weeks, he missed his armor. Ross lost himself in trying to count backwards, to figure out how long he’d been in the care of the Resistance. His sense of time felt off. Ross closed his eyes, letting the noise of the crowded spaceport wash over him. Slowly he took a breath, and exhaled.

“Well, that one is a right royal bastard but here we go!,” Tom said, cheerful and cocky. He handed Smith something as Ross opened his eyes. “All set for a little jaunt to Duro to buy medical supplies, then.”

“Codes?” Smith asked.

“All brand new, should update your ship tags no problem.” Tom tilted his head to one side, giving Smith a look. “Or you could just get a new ship that’s not a piece of junk.”

“You’re a piece of junk, Tom.” Smith grinned, teeth bared. Tom laughed loudly, and the two of them started walking back through the crowded port towards the ships. Ross followed them, a silent Trott at his side. 

“Hungry?” Trott asked, touching Ross’ elbow. “Long flight ahead.”

“A little,” Ross admitted. He hadn’t eaten much that morning, just some bread.

“Stay with Smith and Tom, I’ll get us something.” Trott was ostensibly flying with Tom, according to the plan. They were a decoy. But Trott and Smith clearly had plans within plans, because Trott handed his pack to Smith to stow in their ship. He vanished into the crowd, and Ross strained to pick him out amongst all the bodies moving past.

The ships were docked almost side by side in the hangar. There was a great deal of bustle as crews loaded and unloaded from almost every ship. Ross tried not to stare. There were more aliens here, sorts he didn’t see even in the relatively diverse Resistance base. It made him wonder some, why his time in the First Order had been filled with only humans and droids. The unspoken assumption was that they were the best of the best. But like everything else he’d learned about the rest of the galaxy, the reality of life with other beings was rather different.

“You’re going alone?” he asked. He knew Tom was capable, but Ross didn’t like the thought of sending him out by himself.

“A man’s only as lonely as he makes himself,” Tom said with a grin. “Don’t you worry about me. Zo and Fi will keep me company, once I hit the next station and we’ll make a big loop together. Keep those two idiots out of trouble.” Ross nodded, watching Tom jam his hands in his coat and saunter towards the second  ship . Trott reappeared, a paper bag tucked under one arm. He nodded at Tom in passing.

“Come on, let’s get moving before we get caught up in the traffic,” Smith said. He bounded up the walkway, eager to be in motion. Ross lingered, watching Tom board his  ship .

“Tom’s smart,” Trott reassured him. “He knows how to be careful.” He pressed the bag into Ross’ hand.

“What’s this?”

“Mandalorian oranges. You’ll like them.” Trott patted his arm, and boarded the ship. Ross stuck his nose in the bag, breathing in the spicy, fruity scent. 

“Ross!” Smith’s voice interrupted his reverie. “Move it!”

 

* * *

 

Ross chewed on the inside of his cheek, wondering why the crowds here unsettled him more than the station. They were larger, but the space was more open. Duro was home to a vaguely humanoid, blue skinned race with large red eyes, and there were many of them everywhere he looked. The babble of voices, speaking in standard Galactic as well as other languages, rose in a cacophony. 

He walked with Smith, feeling exposed in the busy streets. Trees lined the wide boulevard of old buildings, elaborately decorated with columns and carved stone. The narrow side streets were shadowed by the tall buildings, and colorful flags seemed to hang from almost every open window. The breeze stirred them, and Ross couldn’t tell what they meant. All the symbols were unfamiliar, bright red, green and gold shapes he couldn’t parse.

No one really seemed to look at them, but Ross imagined they were all staring. He felt horrendously vulnerable in his simple clothes. The natives of Duro were not very tall, and he stood easily head and shoulders over them. Luckily there were plenty of other humans, and even other races, mingling in the crowds. Duro had a mixed population, as one of the older central worlds of the galactic empire. For the first time since he’d woken up at the Resistance base, he was in a crowd of people who could be anyone. Loyal citizens of the empire. Rebels. Anything. He’d thought somehow he’d feel more at home in First Order territory, but the opposite was true. He felt naked without his helmet, missing it intently.

They were in a city, and Ross had already forgotten the name. It wasn’t a particularly large place, just enough to have it’s own port. Halfway down the continent, the bigger cities of the world were clustered nearer the coasts. There was even an old Imperial Academy in the capitol, repurposed by the First Order. Ross remembered there was a flight school here.

Smith lead them to a noisy market crowded between buildings off the main square. A group of children splashed in a fountain, racing underneath the jets of water and shouting. They leaned against the bar of the tiny stall while Smith ordered something in unfamiliar words. Little shacks selling everything from fruit to grilled skewers to bowls of noodles and fried dumplings lined the market alleys. The smells crowded each other out, sweet and hot and spicy. Ross’ stomach growled. He’d eaten most of the oranges on the long flight, and some of Smith’s stash of snacks, but it wasn’t quite enough.

Whatever Smith ordered took the edge off his hunger. The thick pink drink was fruity and sweet, smelling of flowers. His almost comically oversized straw allowed Ross to slurp up the pale jelly balls floating in it. He liked their chewiness. Chomping on the jellies, Ross watched the crowds with interest and apprehension.

“Those looks like military medals,” Ross said, his voice barely above a whisper. He tracked the movements of a tall brunette as she wandered through a stall across the street. They had seen a few soldiers at the port, but none here. Ross thought about the misery of the humid air, the prohibitions about using the armor’s cooling functions except in combat situations. 

“Mmhmm.” Smith nodded. He didn’t seem especially concerned, but Ross could not keep himself from staring.

“I’ve never seen that one before.” The woman had a large medal pinned over her left breast, flashing silver in the sunlight. It was a convex egg shape, dangling from a blue and white ribbon. Ross couldn’t quite make out the decoration. He squinted.

“Order of Maternal Glory,” Smith said sourly. Ross turned to look at him, confused. When Smith caught his eye, he flushed.

“You don’t… I mean, I thought. Shit.”

“What?” asked Ross, feeling confused. He hated sometimes how much his world and Smith’s world seemed to overlap in only strange ways. Beside him, Smith took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks.

“That’s the medal for women who give up their children to the Order’s stormtrooper program,” Smith explained. “Five or more, you start racking up the commendations and they give you a medal to wear as part of the compensation. So everyone knows.”

“Oh.” Ross looked at his cup, then back at the woman buying fruit. She was tall, slim in her plain blue clothes. Ordinary looking. Was that what a mother looked like? He’d thought there would be something different about them. She looked just like any other woman he’d met. 

“I thought you knew.”

“No,” Ross said carefully. “I mean, sort of. I just didn’t know it was something that earned you a medal.”

“Lot of perks, if you have healthy kids. It is a status thing, in some places.” Smith sounded uneasy, explaining. 

Ross nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He had not thought about his mother in a long time. They all did, when they were younger. Some of them constructed stories about parents who had to give them up, sacrificing their families for the good of the First Order. Their instructors encouraged that sort of thinking. But no one had ever mentioned medals, or that mothers might give more than one child up. He wasn’t quite sure why that surprised him so much.

“Come on, it’s almost time.” Smith tossed his cup into a bin. They walked, almost shoulder to shoulder through the streets, Ross just a step behind. A few heavy grey clouds floated in the sunny sky, promising rain. Smith glanced back at him.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Ross said it reflexively, and only wondered if it was true after the words were out.

 

* * *

 

The interested scions of Duro’s elite packed the high ceilinged room. Light filtered down from the windows overhead, dimly illuminating the plain stone floor and empty walls. Ross repeated his story, his voice echoing slightly. He let himself go blank. It felt like another interrogation, especially when they interrupted him to ask more questions, or express disbelief. Smith hovered to one side, just out of the center but where Ross could see him.

It was easy, and hard. Ross held himself straight, and tried to endure. It was a price that had to be paid, he told himself. They grimaced and looked away when he described the torture, and Ross felt a peculiar sort of enjoyment at making them uncomfortable.  He’d told this story enough times now that it was starting to feel like something that happened to someone else. He could speak about it without having to feel it. Ross clenched and unclenched his hands as he spoke, trying to keep his breathing even the way Trott taught him. 

They pressed for why he’d left, seemingly unsatisfied with the idea that mere survival was enough of a reason to defy the First Order. Ross stumbled over what to say, trying to find words to express what it was like to not have any choices. His audience seemed puzzled, murmuring quietly to themselves and each other.

He was just grateful for it to be over, sitting down while Smith had quiet but intense conversations with a few of the audience. Ross drank some water, resting his elbows on his knees. He was tired of the well meaning but invasive expressions of sympathy from strangers.

“The First Order is anxious to demonstrate its superiority,” someone said, interrupting his thoughts.  “We’ve seen far more soldiers from the Order than we would like here.”

Ross looked up into the red eyes of two of Duro’s native sons. He couldn’t remember their names, or if they’d even been introduced. They looked too uncommonly similar to him, in the way that almost every non-human did. 

“Even the Sith has been here recently.”

“What?” Ross jerked, bringing his attention back. 

“Yes.” They both nodded. “The Order is ‘re-accommodating’ the university to serve the Academy. The Sith came, as apparently it is a project of his. There are rumors he seeks apprentices.”

Ross felt a chill. He forced himself to keep breathing, and set his empty cup down on the rickety wooden table. There was no reason to think the Sith was here because he was here. That idea was ridiculous, Ross told himself. The terrifying Force user had no interest in a renegade stormtrooper.

“But, why?” The words stuck in Ross’ throat. “Why would he be here?”

“There are always rumors,” one of Duros said, shrugging. “Make of it what you will.” 

“Ross.” Smith touched his shoulder carefully. “We should get going.”

“Safe travels,” the Duros said in unison. They bowed their heads, and bent forward at the waist.

“Thank you.” Ross tried to emulate their bow in an awkward politeness. They watched him with their wide, red eyes as he followed Smith.

When they exited the building through a service entrance in an alley, Ross could feel the difference in the air. The warm humidity had turned into the ozone-crackling tension of a storm about to break. The streets were almost empty, and a fitful wind gusted. Even the light was different, almost greenish gold. 

Smith cursed quietly under his breath, and pulled the hood up on Ross’ jacket.

“Stay close to me.” He frowned at the street, the shuttered shops. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

Wind rifled the numerous posters fastened to posts and walls. They were layered, ancient and faded ones beneath the new pieces, all fluttering in the air. The freshly printed “WANTED FOR QUESTIONING” poster flapped, and Ross glimpsed his own face looking back at him with a freshly shaven head straight out of basic training. Smith stopped, looking at it.

“Smith,” he said, urgency in his voice. “Smith, that poster-”

“I know,” Smith answered, his voice low. “Keep moving. Don’t run.” In the distance, they could see stormtroopers moving through a cross street. People scattered, avoiding them. Ross felt a sick thrill of fear and recognition. He could imagine exactly how the streets looked from inside a helmet. 

Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance, and the wind blew a few drops of rain to spatter in the dusty streets. Every nerve in Ross screamed for him to run, or to hide. He followed Smith, unable to keep from swiveling to check behind them every few steps. The sight of other stormtroopers used to mean safety. Now he was afraid.

“We’re just going to cut through these streets to get back to the port,” Smith said. “We’re going to be okay-”

A stormtrooper rounded the corner ahead of them, and Smith broke off with a curse. He yanked Ross into the alley on their right before the trooper could raise a weapon.

“Run!” Smith pushed Ross ahead of him. Behind them, Ross could hear the sound of more troopers, and a shout for them to halt. Fear propelled him wildly down the alley, head down. They cut across a road, leaving more shouting in their wake. The thick air burned in Ross’ lungs. His hood fell back as he skidded around a corner. Rain splattered cold on the back of his neck and he nearly slid right into a stormtrooper as his boots slipped on the damp street.

“Traitor,” snarled the stormtrooper, an unfamiliar voice with a familiar accent. For a split second Ross wanted to ask what squad this was. Before he could speak the trooper smashed the butt of his blaster into Ross’ face, and the force of the blow made him sway. Pain darkened his vision, black full of red stars. Behind him, he could hear Smith swearing profusely as he struggled with another trooper. Ross stumbled a half step, and lifted his head again. Blood trickled down his cheek. Blinking, he focused on the stormtroopers in front of him. 

“Come on, rebel scum.” One of the stormtroopers kicked Smith’s feet out from under him. Two of them gripped his arms and began to drag him. Smith twisted and spit, furious. Someone hit him with their blaster, and he went limp. Another trooper pulled the small pistol out of Smith’s jacket. Ross struggled to reach Smith, only to be dragged back. The stormtrooper shoved Ross hard, and he fell to his knees. Someone roughly patted him down, making sure he was unarmed.

“March!” the stormtrooper demanded. “Or have you forgotten how?” Ross staggered to his feet. 

“Please,” Ross said, stumbling over his words and his feet. “You want me, just let him go. You know me, RS-8891 of-” Adrenaline made him shake.

“Shut up.” The stormtrooper behind Ross prodded him with his blaster. “Just move.” 

Ross fell in behind Smith. Two troopers carried him by his arms, head drooping towards his chest and his boots dragging along the street. Beside him, stormtroopers marched in a tight clump. Ross tried not to stare too much. He wanted to grab the troopers, demand they recognize him, speak to him as one of them. 

Rain fell on the back of his head, dripping from his hair down over his tattoo and into his shirt, making Ross shiver. He kept his head down, and kept walking. His nose dripped blood into his mouth. Adrenaline soured his stomach and made him jittery.

They stopped at the corner, where an armored transport vehicle waited. Steam drifted in the humid air. On top, a stormtrooper swiveled back and forth with a heavy rifle, watching the buildings. The troopers carrying Smith lifted him up, into the hands of someone inside. Ross climbed in after him, struggling to see in the dim interior. Someone grabbed his hands and cuffed them before pushing him onto a bench. Beside him, Smith slumped against the wall of the transport. The trooper cuffed him as well, and the vehicle jerked into motion. Ross closed his eyes, trying to breathe.

 

* * *

 

“This is bad,” Ross said softly. He couldn’t say exactly how long they’d been in this empty room. The stormtroopers had brought them in through some garage, down narrow grey halls before abandoning them in this place without a word. At least they’d been uncuffed, though that contributed to the sense that things were deeply wrong.

He paced the walls while he waited for Smith to regain consciousness, listening for anything beyond the almost inaudible hum of the lights. It was a strangely blank room, with a smooth, polished concrete floor and plain walls. Ross counted thirty steps from the door to the fall wall, and twenty from side to side. It felt far too big to be a cell, and lacked any sort of facilities. No drains in the floor. No furnishings, not even built into the walls. It felt drastically different from the older building where they’d met the Duros. 

The keypad at the door didn’t work, didn’t even light up when he depressed the buttons. Ross thought about trying to take it apart, but he didn’t have anything strong or fine enough to pry loose the cover. His fingernails scratched uselessly at the metal. He circled the room twice, hoping to find some concealed door or a grate, a vent or anything. It wasn’t a cell, or even a designated interrogation room. Maybe a storage room, unused yet. It was too unsettlingly new, with fresh and unscuffed paint. He studied the concrete floor, finding a few stray cracks. 

Ross exhaled a sigh of relief as Smith groaned and opened his eyes. He jogged back to Smith, crouching beside him.

“Slowly,” Ross cautioned, helping Smith sit up against the wall. He checked Smith’s eyes, watching his pupils shrink in the bright light. Crouched beside him, Ross felt Smith’s head. He had a bit of a lump on one side.

“I think you’re alright.”

“My head hurts like fuck,” Smith groaned. He winced as Ross prodded the bump.

“Not cracked though,” Ross pointed out, relief flooding his veins. He didn’t seem to be seriously hurt from their capture.

“Where are we?” 

“Waiting.” 

It made Ross uneasy, thinking that they should have taken them to a ship. Someone was coming to them. That was always a bad sign.

“Gonna be alright,” Smith groaned, feeling the back of his head gingerly. “I smashed the tracker beacon before they knocked me down. Trott will get us out.”

“Trott’s alone.”  The grid of lights overhead left the room without many shadows, too bright. The ceiling was too far overhead for Ross to try to find a way out there. He put his hand on a wall, feeling the roughness of the stone under a coat of paint. They must be not far from the port, to be in such a new building. He didn’t think the drive had been quite long enough to get them very far away.

“Trott’s a Jedi.” Smith smiled grimly. “I’d take Trott over a hundred men, any day.”

“What if they found-”

“We would know.” Smith shook his head. “He would have slapped that beacon, or I just would have known.” He waggled his fingers, Smith’s universal sign for all things Force related. Ross nodded.

“I hope he comes soon,” Ross whispered. Dread pooled in his stomach.

“Hey.” Smith gripped his hand, hard. “We’re getting out, okay. We’re going home. Done it before, right?”

Ross slid down to sit beside Smith, and kept his eyes on the door. Even if he couldn’t sense things like Trott or Smith, he knew this was bad and only likely to get worse. His face throbbed, and he touched his cheek carefully. Nothing felt broken. He scratched at the dried blood under his nose, feeling it flake off under his fingertips. It speckled the floor, drifting into a crack in the concrete. 

“Hey. Look at me. Ross.” Smith gripped his other hand tightly, lacing their fingers together. “We are going home, no matter what.”

Ross nodded, meeting Smith’s blue eyes. He could wait for now. Smith sat back against the wall, eyes closed. He kept holding one of Ross’ hands while Ross watched the door.

 

* * *

 

When the door finally slid open, the sound jerked Ross out of his distracted thoughts. A pair of stormtroopers stood stiffly outside. They followed a young First Order officer into the room, taking up new posts flanking the door. For a moment, Ross thought they might have a shot at getting out of this. Only two guards and an officer. They could take them, if Smith was able to move quickly. 

His skin prickled as the officer glanced back to the hallway, and the sound of more footsteps. Suddenly chilled, Ross rose apprehensively to his feet while watching the door. The troopers at the door straightened, holding their blasters across their chests. He wondered if they were bringing droids, to interrogate them. Or perhaps more officers. 

Death entered the room, and Ross felt a cold certainty that this time he would not escape the reckoning. Marturk grinned and clapped his hands with excitement. His red and gold tunic stretched over his paunch, and a cape billowed in his wake dramatically. Marturk’s knee high boots clicked unnaturally loudly on the floor, as if the soles were made of metal. His presence exceeded his average height, making him seem much more intimidating. Perhaps it was the cape, or perhaps it was that Ross had seen him in action enough to know that Marturk would cheerfully kill them without much thought. 

“Well, look who’s come home!” Marturk’s voice boomed in the room, and it took everything left in Ross not to flinch. He stood slightly in front of Smith, who remained seated on the floor looking tired and disgruntled. Marturk stood close to the center of the room, looking at them with his hands on belt.

“And you’ve brought a friend, isn’t that wonderful, Hulm?” Marturk glanced at the man beside him. Ross narrowed his eyes. Not a very high ranking officer, barely a lieutenant. He had clearly copied Marturk’s style, right down to the beard. It made him look rather fuzzy and round. Ross wondered if this was the fad amongst the officers now. It would be hard to take them seriously if they all looked like ewoks. 

“Yes, sir, absolutely sir.” Hulm appeared quite eager to please. His hand hovered over the blaster at his belt, as if he was anxious to use it. Or maybe slightly afraid of their prisoners. 

“Not going to introduce us?” Marturk grinned. “Well, that’s no problem because I already know about your friend, Commander Alex Smith. So wonderful you’ve come to see us again!”

“You guys do your beards together?” Smith muttered, pushing himself to his feet. He cocked his head to the side, looking at Hulm and Marturk. Ross shot him a glance, internally horrified by Smith’s cocky attitude even as he repressed a hysterical laugh. But Smith stared them down, his expression unimpressed.

Marturk laughed, loud and booming. It was an almost convincing performance.

“Oh ho, I’ve been waiting to hear your famous humor! Magnificent!” He clapped his hands. The smile on his face seemed off kilter below the dead stare of his brown eyes. 

“Officer Hulm is unfortunately the only ranking member of command on duty today. You really should have scheduled your visit when everyone was here, and not off on official business. We could have made certain you were seen much quicker, with all appropriate ceremony. Perhaps even gotten your accommodations sorted in advance.”

“Go fuck yourself you-” Smith’s invective cut off abruptly as Marturk raised a hand. He gagged, struggling to breathe. Hulm smirked.

“Let him go,” Ross said. He grabbed Smith’s shoulder. “Let him go!”

“So much concern,” Marturk wondered aloud. He clenched his hand and dropped it. Smith doubled over, coughing. Ross stood there, feeling helpless. He didn’t want to watch Marturk kill Smith.

“Go _fuck_ yourself,” Smith growled, looking up at Marturk. 

With a laugh, Marturk used his power to shove Smith back into the wall. He screamed at the pain of the Force lightning that crackled between them, twisting Smith in agony. Ross recoiled in horror, remembering the sound of screams through the wall in the cell block. Fear rose in his throat and he choked it down, trying to summon up the calm Sips and Trott tried to teach him. He could not feel the Force, or take the time to count. Everything was wrong. They were going to die in here.

“Stop it!” Ross shouted desperately.

“Do you have feelings for your rebel friend, hmm?” Marturk let Smith go, and he slumped down.

“You came after me,” Ross said. His voice trembled only slightly as he pushed himself in front of Smith again. He was dead already, Ross told himself. No reason to hold back now. “There’s no reason to torture him.”

“Oh but I can think of so many reasons.”

“Ross, don’t-” Smith said, his eyes closed. He coughed and spat on the floor.

“Oh he’s given you a name!” Marturk laughed. He looked at Hulm, then at the stormtroopers standing by the door. “Can you imagine? A trooper with a name?”

“Ridiculous,” Hulm sputtered. “Why would he need a name?”

Ross frowned, glaring at Hulm. He was exactly the sort of officer Ross despised, one who didn’t see the troopers as anything other than automatons who obeyed orders.

“Do either of you two have names?” Marturk turned to ask the stormtroopers. Ross saw the almost infinitesimal shift of their helmets. Something in him ached, missing the closeness of their subvocal comms and the understanding of shared life.

“No sir,” one of them answered firmly. “Troops do not have names unless they are promoted to a leadership position.” Ross knew they were looking at him. He wondered what they were thinking. He desperately wanted to justify himself, to explain he’d never ever wanted to betray his squad. That they’d given him up for dead already. That all he wanted was to live. 

“Perhaps our wayward soldier received a promotion in the Resistance.” Marturk turned back. “Is that what they promised you? A name? The prize for your betrayal?”

“No one promised me anything,” Ross spat out angrily. “I was not a traitor, I was trying to survive in the field-”

“You gave up one of our ships to this Resistance fighter,” Marturk interrupted. He spread his hands wide. “And then after you were captured, the officer in charge of your case was killed in your escape. How do you explain that, traitor?”

“I didn’t want to die,” Ross snapped. “They abandoned me to die! They wouldn’t listen, like you! Should I have let them kill me?”

“You should have given your life for the Order that raised you!” Hulm shouted, his face mottled with anger. 

“The Order abandoned me in the field!” Ross took a half step forward, shaking with reckless fury and fear. His hands clenched, lifting slightly as if he might raise them to fight. “You don’t care about our lives, you made me what I am!” 

“The Order made you, and the Order can un-make you.” Marturk shrugged. The stormtroopers at the door shifted slightly, watching.

“You don’t own me anymore,” Ross said. “I don’t belong to you!”

With a negligent wave, Marturk gripped Ross with the Force. He  gagged , a blind panic rising in him.

“As much as I’d like to kill you myself for being such an annoyance,” Marturk said. “I think it will be much more fun to give you back over to your comrades and let them do it. We can make a spectacle of it! Holiday for the troops! See a traitor punished justly by his comrades. Be a good time for everyone.”

Ross  struggled to breathe. He strained against the invisible force holding him up, toes just above the floor. Pressure on his throat made him gasp, hands uselessly clawing at the air. Marturk laughed, squeezing harder. He saw Smith move, only to freeze as Hulm pointed his blaster at him.

“Don’t you think that will be-” Marturk started to say. A siren wailed somewhere, distant and muffled by the wall. Marturk cocked his head to the side, listening.

The explosion blew out the doorway, knocking over the soldiers standing at attention and crumbling much of the wall as well. Through the smoke and dust, Trott stalked through with his lightsaber glowing a furious orange. Sparks crackled and floated in his wake. 

“Well, isn’t this lovely,” Marturk crowed. “Come for your friends?” He released Ross, who staggered back and nearly fell to his knees. His ears rang from the explosion. Hulm stumbled away from the dusty cloud of debris, waving his blaster and coughing. Ross couldn’t see Smith for the dust, just a glimpse of him huddled by the wall with his arms over his head. His cheek stung, where a stray bit of concrete clipped him in the blast.

Trott glared, straightening as he pointed his lightsaber at Marturk. He’d shed the disguise of a trader for his black clothes again. He looked slight in contrast to Marturk’s crimson cloaked form, though they were very nearly the same height.

“Oh, it’s Sips’ newest boy toy!” Marturk’s grin grew wider somehow. Marturk pulled his own lightsaber from his robes. The grip looked unpleasantly sharp, and the blade burned with a purplish red glow.

“You know I killed one of his apprentices years ago,” Marturk rambled, gesturing with his lightsaber. “He’s still mad about it, can you believe it? Bet he’d lose what’s left of his mind if I killed another one.”

“You can try,” Trott said. He swung his lightsaber, darting forward to attack Marturk with grim determination.

Marturk cackled gleefully, dancing backwards. He raised his hand to create a wall of lightning, the charges arced from floor to ceiling. Trott pulled up short, his lip curled in a snarl. He thrust his lightsaber into the lightning, producing a screeching sound as the energies clashed. With gritted teeth, Trott tried to force his way through the lightning. A shock made him yelp, an unguarded reaction that made Ross jerk forward to help without thinking. A hand pulled him back roughly.

“Don’t move,” Hulm snapped. The quaver in his voice dragged Ross’ attention away from Marturk and Trott. He stared hard at Hulm. The officer’s hand shook ever so slightly where he held the blaster, and his fingers hovered dangerously close to the trigger. An untested officer, probably his first real time in the field, and he was afraid. Across the room, his support troopers were unmoving in the rubble of the wall. There wouldn’t be a better chance. Ross took a deep breath through his nose before bringing his boot down hard on Hulm’s foot. At the same time, he twisted to knock Hulm’s arm away. The shot went wide, burning into the floor behind them. 

Hulm yelped, a high pitched noise. Ross grabbed his wrist, squeezing as hard as he could in hopes that Hulm would drop the weapon. Mostly he just wanted to keep it pointed away from anyone. Hulm flailed at him, clearly surprised and frightened to actually be fighting hand to hand.

Without thinking, Ross punched him in the face. He felt the satisfying crunch of something breaking. Hulm’s hand spasmed, and the blaster dropped to the floor. Ross hit him again, and again. He shoved Hulm back, and crouched to snatch the weapon. Before Hulm even rolled over, Ross shot him. The burnt smell of cloth and flesh was so familiar. He didn’t feel anything, not good or bad. It was just like old times.

Ross spun around to advance on Marturk, lifting the weapon. He fired several shots, grim and determined not to die in this quietly. Somehow, Marturk sensed the bolts and deflected them up into the ceiling with a sharp wave of his hand. Bits of the stone and metal rained down in a dusty rush.

“Oh, someone else wants to play,” Marturk chortled. He waved a hand at Ross, and the blaster turned suddenly unbearably hot. He tried to hold it for another moment, grimacing against the burn. But Ross dropped it with a gasp, before the grip melted into his skin. 

“Wait your turn,” Marturk said before turning back to Trott. Ross sank to his knees, trying to pick up the blaster. He gritted his teeth against the heat, feeling his fingers scorch.

Trott leaped through the fading lightning, swinging again. His lightsaber clashed into Marturk’s, sparking orange and red fire. The hum and sizzle of the blows were loud as the tow fought in a rapid flurry of strikes and parries. Ross watched, feeling helpless as the blaster ticked. The mechanism was overheated, and wouldn’t fire. He smacked it against the floor, furious. His palm and his fingers throbbed. Ignoring the officer’s corpse, Ross crawled over to Smith, helping him off the floor.

“Okay?” Ross asked, brushing shattered bits of ceiling off Smith.

“Fucking headache for days,” Smith groaned. “I’m tired of getting smacked in the head.”

Ross almost laughed at Smith’s complaint. He eyed the fighting, hoping they might shift enough that he could reach the stormtroopers by the door, get one of their blasters.

Between the Trott and Marturk, the lightsabers clashed with vicious sparks. Every time Trott closed on Marturk, he pushed him away with the Force or flung another bit of lightning at him. Trott circled him, trying to work his way around to be closer to Smith and Ross. But Marturk kept pushing him away, keeping himself in the center of the room. 

Trott stumbled on a bit of broken wall, and Marturk dived forward. The red blade sliced into his right leg, wrenching an agonized sound from Trott. Marturk laughed as Trott forced the lightsaber away and swung wildly at him. His robes whirled as Marturk slipped out of reach. Trott wobbled backwards, his brow furrowed in pain.

“Slowing down,” Marturk crowed. “Maybe Sips should have trained you more before he sent you to do his dirty work. He’s too lazy to be a good teacher, I bet.” He swung the weapon overhead, battering at Trott. His lightsaber grazed Trott’s cheek, burning a vivid line across his face. With a twist, Marturk pulled the blade back and stabbed. The lightsaber pierced Trott’s shoulder, the red glow illuminating his face.

Trott’s lightsaber dropped to the floor. He blanched, eyes widening in shock as they flicked from Marturk to his chest. Trott staggered back from Marturk as he raised his hand to his chest, lips moving. Ross could not hear what he said.

“Trott!” Smith screamed, his voice raw. He pushed past Ross, crossing the room in three strides before hitting Marturk square in the back. They toppled to the floor, rolling as Smith grappled with him. Marturk’s lightsaber dropped from his grasp, bouncing on the rubble strewn floor where it shut off in a hiss. Ross frantically worked at the damaged blaster pistol, trying to power it back on. The smell of burning filled his nose, and he ignored the stinging pain in his hands as he gripped the still smoking weapon. Ross nearly screamed in frustration as the blaster whined and failed to fire. He jerked his arm back to throw it, hoping for a second of distraction. 

Marturk heaved himself onto his knees, using the Force to throw Smith off his back. Breathing hard, he glared over his shoulder to watch Smith bounce and skid over the floor. Blood trickled from Marturk’s nose, and his snarl matched his eyes. He stretched out his hand, his lightsaber flying back to him. The gruesome red light sprang forth, crackling and popping.

“Marturk,” Trott said, his voice just audible over the hum of the lightsabers. Marturk rose to one knee, his head snapping around just in time for Trott to slice it neatly off his body. It bounced on the floor, and for a moment his body stayed kneeling. Behind him, Smith staggered and pushed himself to his feet. He looked shocked as Marturk crumpled into a bloody heap. Ross watched, unable to grasp that Marturk was actually dead. His arm fell slowly, taking in the stillness and the moment his lightsaber shut off. 

Trott just stared, an unreadable expression on his face. He dropped his lightsaber, and he folded his arm across his chest before sinking down to the floor. The sudden quiet was overwhelming, aside from the still blaring alarm in the distance.

With an anxious cry, Smith vaulted over Marturk’s body to grab Trott, holding him tightly.

“Ross, help me!” Smith’s shouted plea jerked Ross out of his shocked silence. They lifted Trott back to his feet, but he couldn’t stay up on his own. There wasn’t much blood seeping through his clothes. But the ugly gash in Trott’s thigh meant he couldn’t put his weight on it. 

“Put your arm around me,” Smith said. “That’s it.” He snatched Trott’s lightsaber from the floor and tucked it into his belt.

Ross tossed the burnt-out pistol away. His hands tingled unpleasantly, and he told himself not to think about the pain. A trooper’s mantra, a distraction from pain and fear, rose in his mind and Ross half mumbled the words to himself. Buried in the collapsed wall were the two stormtroopers, unmoving. Ross grabbed the weapons from the rubble, trying not to look too closely at the bodies they came from. It was one thing to kill an officer. Officers were different. Ross desperately did not want to kill other soldiers if he didn’t have to do it. 

“We’re gonna get back to the ship now, yeah?” Smith’s voice wavered between cheerful and worried. Trott just shuddered, hanging onto him. The burn stretched from his ear to his nose, making him look ravaged. Dust and blood streaked his face.

“Follow me,” Ross said, hefting the blaster. “I think I remember how to get back out.” The weapon felt good in hands, familiar weight that he knew as well as his own body. In the back of his mind, he pushed the pain away and concentrated on the carbon fiber and metal.

They headed for the hallway to the stairs, Trott holding Smith by the waist. He hobbled, his face drained of color and his gaze fixed on the ground. His steps were halting as Trott struggled to keep up with Smith’s anxious pace.

“I can carry you,” Smith began.

“No!” Trott’s voice was sharp, furious. Setting his jaw with grim determination, Trott forced himself to limp along. He dragged his leg, holding onto Smith with white knuckles.

Emergency lights and alarms flashed, turning the halls lurid red. Somewhere, something else exploded. Ross wondered if that was the Resistance, or the First Order, or just something Trott set in motion. He had no idea what was happening. Hopefully the chaos would be cover for their escape.

A stormtrooper rounded the corner at almost the same time. Startled, they raised their blaster. Ross did too, their motions an eerie mirror of each other.

“Halt!”

“No!” Ross stood squarely in front of Trott and Smith. The trooper cocked their helmet to the side, a gesture so familiar to Ross it made him wonder if he knew the soldier. 

“RS-8891?” The trooper’s voice crackled in the smoky air. Ross strained for a hint of familiarity.

“Yes.” Ross stood there, blaster up and ready to fire. He held one hand back, trying to keep Smith and Trott behind him. For a few long seconds everyone stood frozen. The trooper lowered their blaster. So did Ross. 

“We’ve heard about you.” The trooper sounded almost wondering. “So it is _true_. You left.”

“I was not a traitor,” Ross said, almost desperately.  “I was just trying to stay alive.” He wished he had a helmet. It felt so strange to have this conversation.

“What happened to the rest of squad 512?” asked Ross.

The trooper shook their head.

“Removed from active duty. No one knows. Rumors, like what we’ve heard about you.”

Ross made a pained sound.

“There’s supposedly a holo,” the trooper said, sounding curious. “We heard talk in the market.”

“It’s me,” Ross confirmed.

“Here.” Smith’s voice startled them both. He dug in his pocket, and pulled out the data crystal they’d carried to the meeting. 

“Copy of your own.” Smith tossed it to the trooper, who caught it easily. The crystal vanished, and Ross almost smiled to think how easy it would be to slip it inside a cuff or into a belt.

The trooper looked back down the corridors, lit with emergency lights. A siren rang shrilly, and the air tasted like smoke.

“Leftmost corridor, down into the emergency exit.” The trooper stepped backwards. Ross stared for a moment, trying to think of what to say. He saluted instead. The stormtrooper inclined their helmet gravely, and turned away, heading back down the hall in the opposite direction. 

“Come on,” Smith said. He pulled at Ross, who was still watching the stormtrooper resolutely walking away from them. Trott’s thousand klick stare sharpened for a moment as he focused on Ross. Wearily he tugged at Ross’ sleeve, his grip barely catching. Ross startled, and looked at them both, all the ache and terror filling his limbs. He forced himself to walk, blaster heavy in his hands as he lead them out.

 

* * *

 

Lucky for them, they were not far from the port. The massive fire burning in the buildings to the south filled the sky with smoke and turned the light strange. They were largely ignored in the chaos, skirting through the crowds in the streets. Ross wondered just what the hell Trott had done before he found them. A lot, apparently.

Smith barrelled aboard the ship half carrying Trott, while Ross made sure no one was coming for them. None of the people racing around the landing pads gave them a second glance. He couldn’t see any stormtroopers or other First Order officers. Ross hit the button to close the boarding door, and stowed the blaster by the emergency suits. For a moment he leaned his head against the cold metal wall, trying to gather his strength to keep going. 

In the cockpit, he found Smith fussing with Trott, trying to unbutton Trott’s jacket.

“Smith, get off me!” Trott snapped. “Get us in the air!”

“Trott, you’re hurt, let me-”

_“Get us out first!”_ Trott shoved Smith back with surprising strength before collapsing into one of the seats. “Or it won’t matter at all!”

“He’s right,” Ross said. Smith cursed under his breath and flung himself into the pilot’s seat. Trott waved at Ross to sit in the copilot’s spot, shifting himself into the rear seat with a grimace.

The comm deck buzzed with a cacophony of noise when Ross switched it on. He steadied himself doing the preflight checks as quickly as he could, while calling the tower to request clearance. It was close enough to what he knew from working on the fighters, and he’d seen Trott do it a few times now.

“Check, check, check… fuck!” Smith slammed his hand on the flight deck. “The lock’s still on.”

Smith reached up and snagged a blaster out of the flight deck, and stormed out towards the door. Ross had the feeling he was just going to shoot the ground lock off their landing gear. No one was responding from the tower anyways. If they had a droid, they might have been able to override it.

“Trott?” Ross twisted in his seat to look back at him. Trott met his gaze and smiled weakly.

“I’m alright, sunshine. Keep doing what you’re doing, so we can fly.”

Ross started powering the engines. He could see other ships in the sky, but no First Order ones. Surely it wouldn’t be long before they arrived. Someone must have found Marturk by now, or realized their prisoners were gone.

Cursing under his breath, Smith stomped back in with the smell of burnt electronics and metal. 

“We’re going.”

“Tower hasn’t given us-”

“Fuck the tower.”

“Smith, there’s going to be a First Order ship in orbit,” Ross said quickly. “Probably a big one, if it brought-”

“I know, I know.” Smith stared at the sky, the sun orange through the haze. “Get everything ready to jump as soon as we clear the atmosphere. We won’t have a lot of time.”

The comms crackled as they lifted off, someone shouting about ground clearance and illegally opened locks. Ross ignored it, letting the headset rest around his neck. He only knew how to fly in theory. But he’d run the sequences enough to test ships, so it had to be enough. Every part of him ached like he’d run through a week of training in a single day.

Smith swung the ship hard to one side, buzzing the tower with a bit of vindictive spite. They lifted up, clearing the smoke in an abrupt rise almost vertically from the port. Ross half listened to the comm channel as he kept an eye on the ship’s deck. Despite the strain of their abrupt launch, it was holding up well. The hyperspace drive was almost fully ready.

“Fuck me,” Smith said in a quiet voice. Ross’ eyes snapped up, the dark void of space filling the view as they rattled through the atmosphere. Distortion rippled along the edges, heat coming off the ship, but there was no concealing what waited between them and the rest of the universe.

Hovering over Duro was an old Imperial cruiser, repurposed for the First Order. Ross shivered, the hair on his arms prickling. At his neck, the comm headset crackled and a voice spoke. He lifted it to his ear, dread surging as he listened.

“They’re hailing,” Ross said, echoing the words. “Interdiction of planetary orbit-” 

“Are we ready?”

“Twenty seconds.” 

“Trott, are you strapped in?” Smith said, his eyes still on the cruiser. Ross silenced the comm in the middle of the message. 

“Go,” Trott said quietly. Smith reached backwards, touching Trott’s knee before he grabbed the throttle.

“Hold on.”

Ross closed his eyes against the stomach churning sense of motion that leaping into hyperspace brought. Belatedly, he realized he’d forgotten his safety belt in the rush. Smith flipped the throttle and the ship surged. Duro, the cruiser, all of it vanished into the blur of hyperspace.

“Okay, on our way home-” 

“Three jumps,” Trott interrupted.

“What? _No!_ Trott, we have to get you to a medic!” Smith’s voice rose sharply.

“Smith, listen to me,” Trott grunted, leaning forward to grab Smith’s shoulder. “You need to check the ship for trackers before we go anywhere near home.”

“I can do it,” Ross offered.

“No.” Trott looked at him, his eyes burning in his pale face. “Stay here, help me with the med kit. Smith, sweep the damn ship.”

“Fine!” Smith furiously wiped his course, punching in corrections with far more force than necessary. “Ross, shut everything off so I can hear if anything’s pinging home.”

Ross switched off the comms, and reached under his seat to find the med kit.

“Trott,” Smith said as he climbed out of his seat. 

“I’m okay, sunshine. Don’t worry.” Trott grimaced, and shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Smith kissed him on the mouth, before pushing away. Trott sank back in his seat, smiling faintly. Smith’s hand brushed back his hair, and then he was off in search of a scanner, cursing and banging into things.

While Smith clambered off into the ship to scan for any tracking devices, Ross crouched between the seats. Up close, he could see the burned edges of Trott’s clothes, the red and blistered skin beneath. The burn across Trott’s face made him look even paler, and sweat stood out on his brow. Ross sucked in a breath, looking at the ugly wound to Trott’s shoulder. It went lower into his chest than Ross had thought, and his hand came away wet with blood. 

“Trott…”

“Ross, I need you to get me the injector out of the med kit.” Trott’s voice held surprisingly steady, and Ross marvelled that he could be so calm. Maybe it was some Jedi trick. “The red one there. Alright, now jam that sucker in me.” 

“Trott, are you sure?” Ross looked warily at the injector. “I don’t know how to-”

“Do it, sunshine, I haven’t got all day.”

Ross half closed his eyes, and pressed the injector to Trott’s skin. Fortunately he couldn’t see the needle when he depressed the button. The deep sigh of relief Trott let out made it easier. Ross pulled out a roll of bandage tape, and some antiseptic wipes. Gently he tried to clean off Trott’s face, pulling back at Trott’s grumble.

“These are mostly cauterized,” Ross murmured. “Otherwise you’d have bled to death already.” He thought of troopers, the times he’d held hands with soldiers breathing their last on the ships home. The memory spooked him. Some of them had been stoic. Some had cried, asking for comrades or begging for someone to help them. Ross clenched his jaw, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. 

“Lucky me,” Trott said, his voice tired and pained.

“You need a real doctor.”

“You’ll have to do for now,” Trott said. He winced as he shifted in the seat. 

“Are you…”

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry, Ross.” 

Ross wasn’t sure if the Force was something one prayed to, but he felt the call of the things his squad used to say in the dark of the ship bays before their missions started.  _ Please let death pass over us and not stop to count ,  _ he thought. _ Let us all make it back together. Protect my comrades and keep us safe. Let us all come back._ He stretched the bandage taut, lifting Trott’s leg to wrap it around and around.

“You’re hurt, too.” Trott furrowed his brow.

“It’s nothing,” Ross said automatically.

“Did he do this?” Trott asked, his fingers brushing Ross’ face. His cheek felt swollen and sore, and his neck ached from whatever Marturk had done. More than anything his palms itched and tingled, a pain he deliberately tried to ignore.

“Not all of it,” Ross answered. “Mostly the troopers when they caught us in the street.”

“Smith too?”

“Got hit pretty good when the troopers caught up with us. He’s okay though, I’m pretty sure he’s not scrambled.”

Trott smiled, one side of his mouth pulling up before it became a grimace of pain. 

“They don’t teach us any sort of field medicine,” Ross said. “I don’t really know what I’m doing.” He fastened the bandage and hoped the pressure would help. They probably should have done this before moving Trott, but it was too late. Ross hoped he wouldn’t bleed to death. 

Trott’s hand was cold on Ross’ face, and trembled ever so slightly. He was going into shock, Ross thought. He found an emergency blanket, silver foil folded into a tight bundle.

“That’s okay, just give me another shot so I can sleep through the ride. Smith flies like shit when he’s upset.” Ross pressed the injector to the inside of Trott’s arm, watching his face so he didn’t have to think about the needle. Trott relaxed, and his eyes fluttered shut. Ross watched him breathe, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his lashes stood out against his cheek. Carefully, Ross stowed the med kit away, and unwrapped the blanket. It crinkled in his hands, feeling too thin and insubstantial. He tucked it around Trott, covering him as best he could.

“We’re clean,” Smith announced, ducking back into the cockpit. He froze, staring at Trott.

“He’s sleeping,” Ross said quickly. Smith’s expression was so full of fear it hurt. Even when Marturk was choking him, Smith hadn’t looked like this. Hesitantly, Smith brushed a hand over Trott’s hair. A few locks hung limply around his face, loose from the tie of his braid. Ross carefully buckled the safety belt around Trott, so he wouldn’t fall out of his seat.

“Help me plot the fastest three jumps we can make,” Smith said, climbing back into the pilot’s chair. Ross followed, and kept up his silent prayer.

 

* * *

 

Before he’d even finished powering down the ship, Smith was out of his seat. He let Ross handle the rest of it. Smith lifted Trott, an arm under his legs and one tight around Trott’s shoulders. The emergency blanket slid off, tangling at his feet. Trott groaned and turns his face into Smith’s neck. It was hard to tell how conscious he was. Smith ached all over, and he worried he might drop Trott. 

“I got you,” Smith whispered. He tried to be careful of Trott’s injuries, but there were so many. It took all his attention to get down and out of the ship without clipping corners. Ross scrambled over the seat and past them to open the doors.

The usual late afternoon crowd waited in the bay, including Lomadia with her arms crossed and an expectant look on her face. Smith gave her credit, only the sudden crease between her brows betrayed any emotion. She was cold as a moon, and one of the most capable people Smith had ever fought beside.

“Call medical, make sure they know he’s coming,” she said to the woman on her right. Smith hefted Trott a little higher. Someone reached for him, voices offering help. He caught a glimpse of Zo, looking worried, and several of regular crew peering around the ships. 

“No!” Smith snapped. “I’m taking him.” 

“Clear the door,” Lomadia demanded. She grabbed Ross by one arm as he made to follow them. Smith didn’t have time to worry about it. Ross would be fine. All he could think about was Trott. He tried not to run, and risk stumbling or dropping Trott. Someone was there, pushing ahead of him to open the doors to the lift.

“We’re almost there, Trott, hang on.” Smith’s breath caught in his throat. He was grateful the mechanic didn’t try to talk during the interminable seconds it took to ascend. Smith felt his stomach lurch, queasy with fear and exhaustion. Trott made a quiet noise of discomfort, and his hand clutched at Smith’s shirt.

Down the hall, the medical team was already coming towards them. Someone lifted Trott out of his arms and onto a gurney. Doggedly, Smith stayed with them as they rushed into the medical bay. The lead medic Hana glared at him and sighed.

“Just stay out of the way, commander.” Hana bent over and held one of Trott’s eyes open, examining his pupil.

Smith nodded. All he wanted was to keep his eye on Trott. A medical droid rolled up, beeping and whistling. 

“I’m fine,” Smith started to say. One of the other medics snorted. He couldn’t remember her name. Her hair was streaked with grey, twisted into a knot at the back of her head. Smith knew he’d seen her before, a tiny woman with eyes a disconcerting black, and what looked like gray gills along her neck. 

“Fucking pilots,” she sighed. “Sit down, let me take a look at you while they fix him up.” She pulled out a light, shining it right in Smith’s eyes. He grimaced, but let her check him over. The medic found a tender lump, and Smith cursed. He’d almost forgotten about getting whacked in the head until she touched the spot.

“Well you don’t seem to have a concussion,” she said finally. “Anything I can’t see?” 

“No, I mean, I got a little electrocuted-”

The medic pursed her lips tightly, and her gills fluttered ever so slightly. Smith wondered if that meant she was annoyed.

“- but only a little!” Smith finished. “I’m fine!” He tried to look fine, faking an enthusiastic smile.

“Only a little,” she repeated dubiously. The droid wrapped a sensor arm around Smith’s forearm, chirping away. The medic studied the display, and Smith watched the subtle movements of her gills.

“You mostly check out.” She sounded almost disappointed. “I’ll give you a shot anyways. For the pain.” Smith almost laughed, but thought better of it. He probably shouldn’t pass up the painkillers, or they’d get stingy next time he came in banged up from a mission.

“I want to stay,” Smith said, peering over her shoulder.

“For him?” She glanced over to where a team of medics and a droid crowded around Trott. Smith could barely see him for the press of bodies. She gave Smith a shot. He didn’t bother to ask what it was, instead just leaning against the wall. The medical droid beeped reassuringly at him. 

“Alright, but stay right here, out of the way.” The medic packed up her tray and left him there, watching from the sidelines.

The relief stole gradually through his nerves, the tension he’d forgotten to think about easing and exhaustion catching up with him. Smith stayed by the wall, as the medics worked to keep Trott alive. Blinking against the light, the gritty feeling in his eyes, Smith kept his eyes on Trott as they cut his shirt away and pulled off his boots. Someone handed him Trott’s jacket, and Smith held it to his chest. A droid beeped angrily, something about blood pressure. Hana inserted an intravenous line into Trott’s arm. Smith thought he could see the drugs hitting him, the way Trott’s head drooped to the side. Another medic began cleaning the wound to his leg, frowning at the deep slice. A droid joined him, and Smith heard the high whine of a surgical laser.

“Someone get the bacta tank ready, we’re going to have to dip him,” Hana called out. She carefully fit a breathing mask over Trott’s mouth, plugging his nostrils. The medics crowded around the gurney, bent over, and for a moment Smith lost sight of Trott as they plugged him with wires and tubes. The surgical droid finished whatever it was doing, moving back. He forced himself away from the wall, following as they pushed the gurney into another room where a couple of bacta tanks sat ready. 

Hana and two other medics hefted Trott up and into the tank. He sank gently, the clear gel cushioning and surrounding him. Smith watched him float there, bubbles drifting from his mask with each exhalation. The wound to his leg looked horrific, a gaping slash that exposed bone. The one in his chest was dark, clotted blood seeping out into the bacta gel.

“He’s lucky he didn’t bleed out,” Hana said, her voice startling Smith out of his daze. “Those are serious injuries.”

“I flew home as fast as I could,” Smith murmured. He put a hand on the side of the tank.

“Some of it will probably scar, though we can heal it.”

“I figured,” Smith said. He wanted to kiss Trott’s cheek, take the painful burned line off his face. He didn’t give a damn if it scarred. He just wanted Trott not to hurt, to be alive. To be okay. 

“You’ve done what you can. The rest is up to medicine and him.” Hana pushed at him. “Go home, get some rest. We’re going to keep him in there at least a full day, and he’ll need to stay sedated.”

“But I should-”

“We can find you if anything changes,” Hana said. “Go home, commander. He’s as safe as he can be here.”

Smith nodded. He studied Trott’s pale face, eyes closed. It unnerved him, watching the loose strands of Trott’s hair drift around his face and his long braid floating behind him. Smith leaned his head against the tank, and wished that Trott would wake up just for a moment. He just wanted the reassurance of seeing Trott’s weary smile and the light in his eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last we've come to the end. Thank you for reading. Special thanks to Leon and Ghost, who have helped me shape this story from bare bones to a beating heart.

Ross watched Lomadia, walking fast towards the halls that lead up to the offices of the Resistance command. She was almost, but not quite, running. He wondered what Nano would say about the disaster of their Duro mission. He swayed a little on his feet, feeling exhaustion fraying his concentration. He was used to staying awake for long stretches, but not without stimulants. 

There wasn’t anyone he recognized in the bay, and Ross didn’t want to deal with the scrutiny of near strangers. The ship was docked, everything safely powered down. He’d answered the questions Lomadia threw at him as they watched Smith bolt away with Trott in his arms. There was nothing else left to do here. Feeling both invisible and too aware of the glances of others, Ross took the lift up to the medical wing to look for Trott and Smith.

In the hallway, Ross passed people who didn’t give him a second glance. At the door to the medical bay, he paused. He didn’t really want to go inside, where the medical droids hovered and whirred. Anxiously he paced the length of the hall. Around a corner, he found Sips standing by a wide window in a battered yellow flight jacket. 

“How did you get here so fast?” Ross asked, joining him at the window. It was almost night, shadows stretching over the canyon. 

“I’ve been here,” Sips said, putting his arm around Ross’ shoulders. “Kinda had that feeling, you know.”

“The Force,” Ross guessed.

“Yeah, that would be it.” Sips looked at him. “Do you want to tell me, or are you going to have to talk to the bigwigs first?”

“Bigwigs?” Ross repeated, puzzled.

“Old expression.” Sips grinned quickly. He put a hand to Ross’ chin, turning his face back and forth. “You seen anybody from medical yet?”

“No. Smith took Trott…” Ross gestured in that general direction. He’d forgotten his own injuries. They seemed slight in comparison. “I’m fine. I don’t need- I don’t want to go in there.”

“Let’s at least get you checked out.” Sips caught his wrist in one hand, looking at the reddened skin and a couple blisters already forming. “Jeez Ross, come on.”

Sips cornered a medic in the hall, murmuring something. He stayed with Ross while they carefully scanned Ross’ face to make certain nothing was broken. The prodding made Ross wince, but no more than the antiseptic smell of the burn spray they put on his palms. It numbed them and the absence of the low level, constant discomfort was surprising. He almost wanted to cry in relief, with the pain gone and the dreadful anxiety that suffused the entire trip back to the base. Sips rubbed a hand in soothing circles on his back. The medic handed Ross a cold pack to hold against his cheek, and pushed up the sleeve on his other arm. 

Ross was tired enough that he didn’t even flinch at the injection. He was so tired, and hungry. The fruit from the market on Duro seemed like days ago now. Now that he wasn’t concentrating on working through the pain, he was aware of all the other sensations of his body. The ache in his knees from the long flight. The tight, hollow feeling of his stomach. The dull, fading throb of a headache in his temples, and the soreness of his neck.

Alone again, Ross looked at Sips. He didn’t see any point in delaying the news. 

“It was the Force user from before.” 

“Marturk,” Sips said grimly. 

“Trott killed him.” 

Sips closed his eyes for a second, and Ross wondered what he was thinking. The things Marturk said rattled around in his memory. 

“How bad is Trott hurt?” Sips asked, eyes still closed. In the harsh light of the corridor he looked older, weary and washed of color.

“Bad,” Ross answered. “I don’t know. His leg was cut pretty deep, Smith all but carried him out… and Marturk stabbed him in the chest. I… I don’t know.”

Sips nodded, and opened his eyes. For a moment he looked so bleak it took Ross aback. But the expression passed swiftly.

“He’s always been a tough kid,” Sips said. He worked up a smile that didn’t quite seem happy. The overhead light emphasized the wrinkles at his eyes.

“I don’t know what to do,” Ross admitted. 

“We’ll wait. That’s all we can do right now, Ross.” 

 

* * *

 

Smith walked out of the med bay, and found Sips standing with Ross in the hall. Wordlessly, Smith hugged them both, too hard and close. But he was exhausted and he couldn’t bring himself to care about being inappropriately emotional. Sips patted him on the back. Up close, the bruises on Ross’ face and neck were vivid in the brightly lit corridor. Smith wondered if he looked as bad.

“They told me to go home and rest,” Smith said, his voice rough and cracking. “They’ve put Trott under for awhile so they can fix him up from the…” His breath hitched and Smith stopped before he could sob or scream. He stepped back, fighting to get himself under control.

“He’s in good hands.” Sips rubbed his back reassuringly. “Come on, let’s go back to your place.”

“We should find Nano,” Smith said, fretting. “She’ll want her mission report.”

“Lomadia asked me a few questions,” Ross offered. He held a cold pack to his face as he spoke. “But she didn’t say anything about the general.”

“Nano can come and find you if she needs to talk to you tonight,” said Sips. “Right now you need to eat something and rest, let that goose egg on your head go down.” 

Smith sighed and nodded. Sips’ touch felt grounding, his hand warm and reassuring on Smith’s shoulder as they walked. The walk home seemed to pass in a blink, and Smith couldn’t remember a single step of it. Fortunately it was late, and the paths they took were mostly empty. No one stopped them. 

“Smiffy, you stink. Go take a shower.” Sips pushed him towards the stairs once they were safely inside. He hung his coat by the door and headed straight for their kitchen. Smith stared for a moment, the familiar room feeling strangely foreign.

Another blink and he was upstairs. Smith figured it was being up so long, and the medicine they gave him for the headache, that kept erasing little snippets of time. He wanted to sleep for days. The hot water made him even more tired, and he leaned against the stone wall. Images of Trott, his eyes closed, kept flashing through his mind. Smith agonized that he wouldn’t get to tell Trott so many things, important things, stupid things if… He clenched his fist and pounded on the wall, trying to drive the thought away. A tight, choked sob burst from his mouth, and Smith shuddered. He tried to cry as soundlessly as possible, tears as hot as the shower spray on his face. 

They’d been in terrible places before. They’d been hurt before. But he’d never seen this. Trott unconscious with grim faced medics working feverishly over him, deliberately keeping him unconscious while a surgery droid explored his wounds to try to repair the damage. Despite all the reassurances, Smith couldn’t shake the feeling of horror at seeing Trott so injured. He just wanted him home, to yell at Smith for his messes and to hug Smith even when he left wet towels on the floor. The chilling fear wouldn’t stay down, so Smith cried until he thought he would retch.

Once he was sure he was done, Smith put the water as cold as he could stand it for a minute or two before he got out. Wrapped in his robe, he opened the door. Across the landing he could see the door to Ross’ room open, and Ross standing there with his head down.

“Ross?” Smith called softly. 

“Huh?” Ross looked up, weariness in every line of him. 

“I’m done with the shower, if you want one.” Smith leaned in the doorway. He scuffed a bare foot against the floor, curling his toes.

“Yeah, that would be good.” Ross’ voice was so low, Smith had to strain a little to hear him. The bruise on his face had darkened, shading into violet and purple in the lamplight. A fainter bruise circled under his jaw. Smith had never seen the Force actually leave marks on someone. He wondered what the hell Marturk had actually done.

Ross smiled wearily, and pulled off his shirt. Some part of Smith registered the planes of muscle, a scattering of scars, and the startling scatter of dark hair on pale skin.

“Last one into the shower always got the worst tap, cold water and a timer that went off about twenty seconds short.” He picked up the clothes from the foot of the bed. “Hope you at least didn’t use all the hot water.”

“It’s all cold, but you can stand there as long as you like,” Smith joked. He caught Ross in a hug, resting his chin on Ross’ shoulder. Smith made a soft sound when Ross hugged him back. They stood there, probably longer than necessary. But Smith needed it, and he hoped Ross didn’t mind this. Maybe he needed it just as much. 

“Sips said he’d make dinner,” Ross mumbled into Smith’s shoulder.

“That means it will either be really good, or really terrible,” Smith said. Reluctantly, he let go of Ross, missing the warmth of him almost instantly. Ross disappeared into the bath, and Smith tried not to wonder what he looked like without any clothes. Trott would have rolled his eyes and smacked him, and the thought made Smile almost smile.

Going into his bedroom, so full of Trott’s presence and his things, made him ache again. He could smell something frying, the hot, salty scent of oil. Quickly, Smith pulled on some clothes and stomped downstairs to find out what Sips was cooking. 

 

* * *

 

The silence in the conference room was tense as Smith finished summarizing their escape from Duro. Nano finally broke it, leaning forward with both hands on the table as she stared at Smith.

“You gave a copy of the holo to a stormtrooper?” 

Ross thanked his trainers for the discipline that kept him from laughing outright at the shocked expression on Nano’s face. Impassive and serious while they told her how Trott managed to kill one of the most feared members of the First Order, but dumbfounded by Smith’s tiny act of insubordination.

“Of all the things to care about,” Sips groaned, leaning back in his chair. Nano ignored him.

“The First Order already knows it exists.” Smith shrugged, his posture radiating defiance. “Why not let their troops see it?” The bruise on his temple was a faded purple, and gave him a rakish air. He looked more like a smuggler than a commander. Ross suspected Smith knew that, and did it on purpose. 

“I’ll talk to you later about breaking mission protocol,” Nano said darkly. In her severe grey jacket, she looked every inch the part of a general. She glanced at Ross. “I don’t think you need to be here for the rest of this, you can leave.”

“It’s wrong to have the meeting without him,” Smith insisted. He put his elbows on conference table. “You’re asking him to put his life on the line for your cause-”

“Our cause.”

“You never even asked him if he wanted to be a rebel!” Smith’s voice rose.

“Whether he wanted to or not, he did rebel.” Nano shrugged. “At this point, does it matter?”

While Nano and Smith shouted at each other across the table, Ross took a shuddering breath and pushed back his chair. It scraped loudly on the floor, drawing eyes to him.

“You want to use me to spread your rebellion, but you don’t want the stormtroopers to get the message?” Ross clenched his hand into a fist, willing himself to stay calm. “You don’t care about the people-”

“That’s not true,” Nano sighed.

“You kill people like me.”

“Only because they’re trying to kill us,” Nano said, her voice both weary and aggravated.

“No one has a choice!” Ross slammed his fist on the table. “We are never given a choice! Only orders!”

“You made a choice,” Nano said.

“Yes, and look at what that cost me!” Ross struggled to control his temper. “The rest of my squad probably suffered the same torture I did, asked why they didn’t know they had a traitor in their midst, and what could they say? Everyone I cared about is probably dead now because I made a choice.” He looked around the table at the leaders of this Resistance. Nano stared back at him, her face closed and cold as a moon. Smith at least looked regretful. 

“You can’t ask them to just rebel,” continued Ross. “What are they supposed to do? It’s not like they could come to you if they just decided -”

“Why couldn’t we take them in?” Sips asked, cutting into the conversation. Nano turned her icy glare on him. Across the table, Lomadia and Angor shared a glance.

“Do I even have to elaborate the numerous security issues with that plan?” Lomadia said dryly.

“Not like it would easy, but seriously. Think about it.” Sips shrugged.

“It would be something,” Angor mused. “Reducing the First Order’s military capability, the optics of soldiers born and bred to fight for them leaving…” 

“What, they’re just going to decide to leave?” Lomadia asked sarcastically. “Ross is right about it, they have nowhere to go.”

“But we could,” Smith said, looking around the table. “We could offer them amnesty.”

“What could we possibly offer that would make them take amnesty? We’ve never even taken prisoners.” Lomadia shook her head dismissively.

“Freedom,” Ross said quietly. “The choice. The chance to protect people they care about.” He thought about his squad, about the soldiers he shared bunks with and ate beside and fought beside for years. He missed them so much it hurt, when he stopped to think about it.

Nano looked at him, quite gravely. 

“We all need to think about this. We’ll reconvene, day after tomorrow.” Nano pushed away from the table. Smith followed her, frowning and intense with the need to keep arguing. Ross watched the others leave, until it was just him and Sips.

“Let’s take a walk,” Sips said. He adjusted his belt on his lurid green robe, the vivid purple of his shirt peeking out from the open collar. Ross wondered if he could bring himself to wear something that bright. The advantage of walking with Sips was that no one would notice him in his plain clothes beside Sips’s acidic color combinations. It was a certain sort of anonymity, not as complete as armor and a helmet but enough.

 

* * *

 

The path to the top of the canyon was empty. The entire base seemed unusually quiet. Ross wondered, but let it go. It didn’t matter. Instead he planted his feet carefully on the rocks, following behind Sips. A strong wind gusted and pulled at the ends of Sips’ robes to flap noisily around him. 

On top of the canyon, Ross settled on a lump of granite. He picked at the edges, the crumbly chaotic patterns of color flecked together, wondering if this was a rock made of sediments, or one made from magma. He couldn’t remember. When they got home he’d have to look it up again in his geology book.

“I don’t want this to be my life,” Ross said, breaking the silence. He traced the bright glints in the rock, and looked towards Sips.

Sips nodded, waiting for him to continue.

“I don’t want to have to kill people, especially not my people.” Ross frowned. “I mean, people like me. It’s too easy, and it’s terrible, and I don’t want to do it anymore.”

“I doubt anyone wants to send you out to do that,” Sips said, his voice low. “But you don’t have to be a soldier anymore if you don’t want to.”

“I hate how people look at me, that they’ve made me into this figure of… whatever it is. The Resistance.” He hugged his knees, watching the grass ripple in the wind. “What am I resisting? Nothing they care about.”

“You have a choice, Ross. You can choose not to work with Nano.”

“I want to live in the valley, where you are.” Ross kept his eyes on the horizon, watching the grass and the rocks. It was easier than looking at Sips while he made his plea. “I could leave with you today.”

Sips sighed, the sound heavy and sad. 

“Ross, it won’t help you to hide away.”

“You do.”

“Point.” Sips smiled tightly when Ross looked at him. “I’m retired though.”

“At what point will I have done enough to retire?” Ross snapped bitterly. “When I’ve killed enough First Order officers? Or is it that story about how if you make it long enough, they send you off to that beautiful tropical planet to retire? The one no one’s ever seen?”

“Ross, that’s not…” Sips sighed again. “Look. Trott’s going to need help while he recovers.”

“He has Smith.”

“And Smith needs you too,” Sips said. He stepped up beside Ross, resting a hand on his shoulder. Ross leaned his head against Sips wearily. 

“I don’t-”

“Hush,” Sips squeezed his shoulder. “Those two knuckleheads care about you, Ross.”

“Why?” Ross asked. His breath hitched.

“One day you’re going to have to stop this assuming you’re unlovable.” Sips ruffled his hair. “Your squad loved you, right?”

“They were… we were all on the same side. It was different.”

“It’s not your war, but you’re on this side of the line now. And I know you did what you could to help them both get off Duro alive.” 

Sips let the silence stretch, watching the horizon with Ross. Clouds moved quickly on the wind, the last of the morning’s rainstorm blowing off into grey and white shreds. 

“We’ll take a trip tomorrow. Something I want to show you.” He looked pensive, but smiled at Ross’ questioning look. 

 

* * *

 

Instead of walking through the valley, they took Sips’ landspeeder. The vehicle was old, patched and slow to start. But it glided over the ground easily, and Sips wove through the scrubby trees with far more control than Ross had anticipated. They stopped at Sips’ place to check up on Tina, and the chickens before heading further downriver. Laika barked mournfully when Sips shooed her out of the landspeeder.

The land flattened out more here as the canyon walls sloped down. It was still hilly, but the horizon stretched wider. A trickle of sweat worked its way down Ross’ back as the sun beat down on them. 

Before the sun was fully overhead, they pulled into the gates of what appeared to be a larger farm. Ross could see three or four buildings grouped together, and a barn painted a bright red. Fields waved with yellow green stalks, bright under the sun. It looked impossibly peaceful. Sips parked next to what looked like an enormous transport truck. 

“Come on, Ross, let’s go see if anyone’s home.” Sips hopped out of the speeder, walking up the gentle slope of grass towards the nearest building. Someone was waiting for them, eyes shaded against the light. Ross could see other people moving about, working in the field and around the barn. Somewhere a dog barked. 

“Jena, how are you?” Sips greeted the woman with a cheerful slap of palms. 

“Pretty good until you showed up,” Jena replied, but her smile softened the words. Her dark hair was pulled back in braids, and she wore a dusty red pair of overalls tucked into boots. 

“This is my buddy Ross,” Sips said, pulling Ross forward. “I wanted to show him the farm. Ross, this is Jena. She’s in charge here.”

“In charge,” Jena laughed. “More like I try to make sure nothing catches on fire.” She shook Ross’ hand. “Welcome, come on inside. You want something to drink?”

“Please, it is hot as balls out here,” Sips said. They followed Jena up the steps to the wide porch on the front of the house. She led them around the side, where a door opened into a kitchen big enough for a barracks commissary. Ross looked around, taking in the mix of gleaming sinks and ovens with the plain, polished wooden cupboards and the printed curtains at the windows. He could smell bread, and it made his stomach gurgle.

“Weather’s been pretty good this year,” Jena said, walking around the long kitchen island. “I think we’re finally going to have a really good corn crop.”

“You still growing those weird purple things?” asked Sips.

“The peppers? We’ve got a whole rainbow of them going this year.”

Ross let the conversation become background noise. He stared out the window at the peaceful scene with its wide fields and blue sky. It was so nice it seemed unreal. 

“How many people you got out here now?” Sips asked. Jena paused, pouring out cups of cold tea.

“I think we’re maybe about fifteen? A few more and we’ll need to build some more space for everyone. I think Allie’s going to turn up pregnant any day now.”

Sips hummed and turned to Ross.

“How many people in a squad, Ross?” 

“Ten,” he answered absently. Ross watched a dog trot along the grass. It looked a lot like Laika, but more golden.  

Jena handed Ross a cup. It was solid, someone’s homemade pottery painted with swirls of red. The tea was cold, sweet with something fruity. It felt good to be out of the sun, drinking tea. Ross envied the peaceful scene. It felt so far removed from the Resistance base. He could tell people were working here, but there wasn’t the same sense of dreadful urgency. Ross glanced at Sips, who was having some quiet and serious conversation now. He couldn’t quite make out the words, but Jena glanced at him from time to time. 

“Come, let me show you around.” Jena touched his shoulder, pulling Ross from his thoughts. 

They walked along the fence, while Jena talked about the corn they were growing this year and the fields of beans. There were a couple dogs, and one loped alongside them. Ross stopped to scratch its ears. The dog was warm, it’s short fur dusty. It licked Ross’ hand with a bright pink tongue. The smells of sun warmed dirt, dripping hoses and green leaves filled his nose. They wandered down a row of pepper plants, the peppers a riot of red, green, yellow and purple under the leaves. A man stopped to talk to Jena about something, gloves tucked in his belt and a wide hat shading his head from the sun. While they spoke, Sips pulled a pepper and bit into it. Jena shook her head fondly, and handed one to Ross. The shiny yellow pepper was more sweet than hot, the seeds soft between his teeth. 

“Great, aren’t they?” Jena beamed, pleased with Ross’ nod. “You should taste the pickles that Lane made.”

Ross took another bite, thinking Smith would probably like some pickles. 

 

* * *

 

“You ever thought about farming, Ross?” 

The question puzzled him. Ross turned to look at Sips, driving slowly back up the canyon. The late afternoon light was dappled with clouds blowing from the south, and Ross had spent most of the drive watching their shadows. In his lap he held a couple jars of pickles Jena had pressed on them before they left. They were sweet and sour, and pleasantly crunchy. 

“No. I never thought of farming.”

“What would you do, if you weren’t a soldier? Say you didn’t grow up in the First Order.”

“I don’t know.” Ross considered the idea. It seemed so impossible.

“Lot of equipment on a farm,” Sips said, watching their path. “Things that need fixing. Wouldn’t be bad to have someone with mechanic skills there.”

“I only know about ships,” Ross said, looking back up at the sky.

“Still, probably wouldn’t be too hard to learn.”

“What is this about, Sips?”

“I was thinking about you, and maybe more people like you, that might need a place to go if they left the First Order.” Sips steered them around a thick tree, and a bird startled in the twilight.

“Assuming anyone decided to leave,” Ross said, his voice weary. 

“Well, I think there might be a few. Maybe a squad’s worth. Enough to form up a collective, start a farm.”

Ross leaned back in the seat, thinking about it.

“I don’t think it has to be forever, but it would be a good place to start,” Sips said. “If you didn’t have to do it, do you think you’d want to fight?”

“No.” Ross shook his head. That was easy enough. He didn’t want to have to kill anyone again. He didn’t feel anything about it, and that was what bothered him. It seemed like it should mean something.

“Maybe there are others who don’t want to fight either.”

“No one knows how to farm,” Ross said after a long pause.

“Well, that’s why we talk with Jena and some of the other places up and down the river. Get a few people to help get things going. Someone to teach you, so you can show others. That’s how it works.”

“Why would they want to help stormtroopers?” Ross asked. “Aren’t they all living out here to be as far from the First Order as they can?”

“Things aren’t always black and white.” Sips leaned back, one hand on the controls. “I mean, I’m out here but I’m still hanging around with you. There’s good in people, Ross. You’ll find help.”

“You sound so certain.”

“I am.” Sips glanced at him, smiling. “I was certain about you.”

 

* * *

 

Ross curled into the reading nook, a book open on his lap. The sound of the door opening made him raise his head. Smith wearily pulled off his boots, kicking them under the bench near the door.

“How is he?” Ross asked. It was always the first question they asked when they saw each other again, even if they’d already been to see Trott that day.

“The same,” Smith sighed. “They aren’t planning on waking him up for another day or two, she said.” He sat on the edge of the nook, and face-planted into the pillows with a sigh.

Ross tucked a marker into the chapter on how rocks were formed in the heat of a planet’s core. He wasn’t a very fast reader, especially not with unfamiliar material. But it was interesting, and he liked the feeling of knowing something even if it wasn’t immediately useful. The book took his mind off everything else, all the pieces of his life that felt like they were spinning and out of control.

“Tom’s asking when you’ll be back,” Smith said carefully. His voice was muffled in the gold and white striped pillow.

“I don’t know if I should go back,” Ross said.

“Why?” Smith rolled over to look up at him.

“This.” Ross shrugged. “You. Trott’s in medical, hurt because of me. Because I’m from the First Order.”

“Ross, we all knew the risks. And it wasn’t your fault.”

“But if I wasn’t here, you wouldn’t be taking those risks for someone you hardly know.”

“I wouldn’t be here, if you hadn’t taken a risk,” Smith pointed out.

Ross shook his head.

“No one blames you for what happened to Trott.”

“I know. I blame myself.”

Smith sat up, and scooted over to where Ross sat against the window. He hugged Ross tightly, resting his head against Ross’. The light from outside was almost gone, leaving them in the dim twilight.

“Didn’t Sips spend the day giving you some pep talk or something?”

“He took me to see a farm.” 

“A farm?” Smith snorted. He held onto Ross, and Ross didn’t feel like pushing him away. Smith smelled alright, and the closeness felt nice. Ross sometimes missed the casual contact and tight quarters of his squad’s home. Besides, he told himself, Smith was probably sad without Trott around to hug. It would end as soon as Trott got better. So he might as well enjoy it while it lasted. 

“Yeah, some place further down the river. It was nice I guess. Quiet.”

“I always thought it was weird he was so into nature, but I guess that’s some sort of Jedi woo shit.” 

“He has this idea…” Ross stopped, wondering how much to say.

“What idea?” Smith lifted his head to look at Ross. There was a faint line between his brows, but his eyes were unclouded and the same vivid blue they always were.

“Just an idea, that if there were other people like me who left,” Ross said slowly. Other stormtroopers, he thought. “That maybe they could come and work on a farm, live far out from the Order and the fighting.”

“Fucking Sips and his farming.” Smith chuckled, but he looked thoughtful. “What do you think?”

Ross shrugged, one hand tracing the letters on the cover of his book. 

“I dunno. Some people might want that. Some people might just want to fight the Order. Hard to say.”

“What about you?” Smith’s gaze was too shrewd to bear.

“There’s machines to fix. Nothing as fancy as a ship. I’d have to learn though. But engines are mostly the same, when you get to it.” The more he thought about Sips’ idea, the better it sounded. Maybe it wasn’t so far fetched.

“We never really asked you what you wanted,” Smith said.

Ross shrugged again, uncomfortable. 

“I’m not ungrateful, that’s-”

“I didn’t say you were,” Smith interrupted. He ran a hand through his hair, getting longer and starting to wave. “Just, that Trott said something awhile back and it reminded me. So much of my day to day is taking orders from Nano, and handing them off to people… there’s never much of a chance to just ask someone what they want to do anymore.”

“That’s how it is,” Ross said.

“Well, it really shouldn’t be.” Smith frowned. “Honestly I never thought I’d be in this position. Probably should have stayed out of it, but Nano asked me to help. I thought it would be a little while, and here I am.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Years. Too many. But I guess that sounds a bit shit compared to what you’ve been through.”

Ross shook his head.

“I’ve only been fighting for five years. Not quite good enough to be promoted. Just surviving.”

“Fuck,” Smith said, his breath pushing the word out. “To think all the time, it’s just been… kids basically. How old were you when you started?” 

“Seventeen, more or less.” Ross made a face, frowning. “The Order keeps track, in our records, but we try not to think too much about it. Bad luck, to think about how old you are. Gets you killed.”

Smith pulled Ross into a hug, a hand on the back of Ross’ head. It was strange to think of Ross as being younger than himself, or Trott. Ross’ quiet competence, and the look in his eyes made him seem older. Smith had never really considered the gap between them. It bothered him to think at seventeen, he was busy trying to make out with Trott and Ross had been handed a blaster.

“God, my mother wouldn’t even let me fly overnight at seventeen without an argument, much less fight.” Smith shook his head, overwhelmed.

“Your mother wouldn’t have been a good officer then.”

“Ahh, but you’re wrong.” Smith laughed, his voice close to Ross’ ear. “My mother was an officer in the Rebellion, a hell of a pilot. She even flew combat missions while she was pregnant with me. Incredible record.”

Ross hugged Smith back, thinking about that.

“Is that why you’re crazy?” Ross asked after awhile. It was worth it for the way Smith sputtered and thumped his hand on Ross’ back. He laughed and laughed at Smith’s indignation. For a moment, things felt okay.

 

* * *

 

“Think I’ll go to bed,” Ross said, stretching. Smith shifted reluctantly, and closed his own book. The words blurred and ran together on the page, and he knew he needed to sleep. Ross yawned, and tucked a marker in his book. Beside him, Smith held a tattered paperback. It was a sentimental favorite, thinly veiled historical fiction dressed up with better clothes and more sex than Smith thought actually happened in a war. Still, it had a happy ending and he knew it. There was comfort in that.

“You want to come sleep in our room?” Smith offered. He tilted his head back on the cushion, watching Ross. 

“In your room?” Ross paused.

“It’s lonely,” Smith admitted. “We could sit here until we fall asleep and wake up with stiff necks, or we could just. Sleep in the same bed. And not wake up sore.”

Ross sat still for long moment, so long that Smith wondered if he’d misjudged something. But finally Ross nodded. 

“Great.” Smith hoped it would make them both feel better. Comfort reading, and comfort sleeping sounded good to him.

Upstairs, Smith pulled on a tshirt worn translucent with age and a pair of pants that had little cartoon banthas on them. Trott always rolled his eyes, but Smith thought they were funny and cute. He looked up at the creak of the door, to see Ross hovering in his dark blue pajamas.

“Trott likes the window side, but you can have whichever.”

Ross sat on the edge of the bed and fell backward with a sigh. Smith turned off the light, letting his eyes adjust to the differences in darkness.

“The first nights, I couldn’t sleep,” Ross said quietly. He laid on his back, facing up at the ceiling. Smith stretched out beside him, watching Ross’ profile against the lighter darkness of the balcony door.

“It was strange to be alone, and the bed was too soft.”

“I didn’t think about what it would be like, to go from living with people so close to this,” Smith said. He wondered if letting Ross stay in the dorms might have been a better choice. Maybe being close to other people would have helped some, or maybe it would have been worse with them being strangers.

“It’s not so different... just more space, I guess. I suppose if someone had given us a barracks with the room, we would have slept in our own beds.”

“Still. It was a lot of change, pretty fast.”

“Yeah.” Ross was silent, and Smith yawned.

“Thank you,” Ross said abruptly, still staring up at the ceiling. Smith stretched his arm across Ross’ chest and hugged him. He smelled different from Trott, in a way Smith couldn’t quite quantify. More like soap, without the scent of the stuff Trott combed through his hair from time to time. Similar, but not the same. Ross’ skin felt cooler than Trott’s did, and he didn’t push his legs between Smith’s to cuddle into him. Even so, just having the comfort of someone else there helped.

“Anytime, buddy.” Smith let himself fall asleep with his head nestled against Ross’ shoulder.

 

* * *

 

Something made him blink, and Trott winced at the brightness of the room. He lifted a hand to rub his eyes, and foggily his brain registered a needle in his arm. A dull throb of panic faded as he felt his mind clear. He reached with his thoughts for the Force, clumsily and hastily. But it felt familiar, and Trott relaxed. They were home. He opened his eyes again, taking in the med bay’s undecorated walls, and the crowd around the narrow bed. Several medics on one side, and Smith holding his hand on the other. Behind him hovered Sips and Ross. Trott licked his lips, and stared round at them. 

“Stable,” Hana said under her breath to one of the other medics. Standing on his right, she tipped Trott’s face towards her and looked carefully at his eyes. The monitor at the head of the bed beeped softly, lines charting his heart beat and his breath.

Trott took a deep breath, and his hand tightened on Smith’s. Hana let him go, seemingly satisfied.

“Water,” Trott croaked, his voice barely a whisper. Smith half turned, but Sips was already pouring some from the pitcher at the bedside table. He carefully held the cup to Trott’s lips, a hand at the back of Trott’s head. Any other time, Trott might have swiped the cup from Sips but he was so tired he couldn’t be annoyed. The dry pain of his throat eased, and he swished the water in his mouth to get rid of the stale taste.

“You’ll want to take it easy but the surgical wounds are mostly healed,” Hana said, watching the monitor. “There’s going to be some scarring, but the important muscles look to be holding up well.”

“How long?” Trott asked, his voice still gruff. He tried to remember their escape, the corridors and Ross standing between them and a stormtrooper. The sheer misery of sitting in the cockpit and holding himself still. The ghostly sense of pain, and darkness. He couldn’t remember anything after that.

“Four days,” she said. “We wanted to give you the best possible chance. There was a lot of damage.”

Trott grimaced. The motion pulled at the healing burn on his face, like something was glued to his skin and tugging. He could remember single scenes. Smith looking at him, Ross kneeling with the med kit, the thump of the ship moving. The rest slipped through his fingers like smoke, as he tried to center himself. It helped some, holding Smith’s warm, and very real hand in his.

“We did have to remove some of the muscle tissue in your leg,” Hana continued. “Lack of blood, the burns and tissue degradation. But we managed to save it, so you won’t need a prosthetic.”

Trott’s free hand twitched, smoothing down the sheet. His awareness of his body came back slowly. It existed, just underneath the blank fabric. Part of him didn’t want to look, in case it was worse than they said.

“It’s not the prettiest, but with a bit of physical therapy you should be able to walk again.” 

Trott nodded. He flexed his feet experimentally, and felt a rush of relief that he could move.

“When can I go home?” he asked Hana.

“Tomorrow, probably. We can talk more about the specifics later. You have quite a few visitors who I’m sure won’t tire you out much.” Her words were pointed.

“Don’t worry,” Sips said, flashing a toothy grin. “We won’t let them fuck in the hospital bed.”

Hana stared at Sips for a second, then laughed abruptly. She gathered her tablet and the other medics, leaving them in semi privacy. 

“Hey, sleepyhead.” Smith kissed Trott’s hand, his eyes bright. Trott could see just how ragged Smith’s self control was, the shadows under his eyes. He felt his throat close, aching and still dry.

“Like you wouldn’t sleep for four days if someone let you,” Trott whispered. He tugged at Smith’s hands, pulling him closer. Part of him just wanted Smith to crawl into the bed with him, to hold him. Instead Smith leaned forward. He kissed Trott, his lips dragging over the stubble on Trott’s cheek.

“I missed you,” Smith whispered into the unscarred side of Trott’s face. He nuzzled into Trott, arms planted on either side of Trott’s shoulders.

“I missed you too, sunshine.” Trott’s hands cupped his face, pulling Smith back so Trott could look at him. “Thanks for getting me back.”

Smith kissed him again, the slowness and gentleness of it making Trott ache. He wanted to be home in his bed, wrapped up in Smith’s arms. He wanted to forget all of this, for a little while. This stupid, grinding war, these terrible missions and escapes and everything. Trott was filled with a sudden anger at the Resistance, for expecting them to do this over and over.

“Come on Smiffy, let everyone have a turn.” Sips’ voice pulled him out of the swirl of thoughts. Trott rubbed his face against Smith, reluctantly letting him go.

“Ahh, Trott, it’s good to see you out of that tank of goop.” Sips bent over to hug Trott, kissing the top of his head. “Though I’m not gonna lie, I kinda want to climb in there and float a bit. Looks relaxing.”

Trott laughed, watching Sips step back. The memory of Marturk’s mocking voice whispered in his ears, and Trott pushed it down as hard as he could.

“Bacta tank won’t make you any younger,” Smith snarked. Sips playfully whapped him on the back. 

“Come here, Ross.” Trott crooked his fingers, watching Ross hover behind them. He stood straight with his arms folded behind his back, and Trott knew he must be uncomfortable in the medical bay. Slipping between Sips and Smith, Ross hesitantly reached for Trott’s hand.

“I’m sorry, Trott-” he began, looking anguished in a way that made Trott so sad. The bruise on his cheek was faded yellow and purple, but still bright on his pale cheek. 

“Ross. You have nothing to be sorry for.” Trott wondered when exactly he’d begun to care so much about what this man felt or thought. He hadn’t noticed how it crept in, until he was sitting here thinking that Ross had saved both him and Smith now.

“I’m glad you’re going to be alright. Smith’s been so unhappy without you at home.”

Smith made an indignant noise , and Sips chuckled, ruffling Smith’s hair. Trott smiled faintly. He could imagine. 

“How many times did he fall asleep on you?”

“Only twice,” Ross answered, amused.

Trott  smiled and squeezed Ross’ hand. He frowned at Ross’ barely perceptible wince and looked down. Turning their hands, Trott saw the pink, healing burn.

“Oh Ross, sunshine, what-”

“It’s fine, it wasn’t even that bad,” Ross interrupted. “Just unlucky.”

“Marturk,” Smith half snarled. Ross shook his head, and carefully untangled his hand from Trott’s. 

“Smith, go take Ross for some lunch. I need to talk to Sips.” He covered the ache in his throat with brisk practicality. 

Smith sighed, and nodded. He leaned in to kiss Trott again. He tasted like tea and Trott’s stomach clenched. He was hungry, too. 

“And bring me a damn hairbrush.” Trott touched his hair, which was mostly still in a braid. It felt in dire need of a wash and brushing. He wanted a shower, and to comb his hair. Real clothes would be nice too, instead of the pale hospital tunic.

“You got it.” Reluctantly, Smith pulled away. 

“Don’t look so sad,” Trott chided. “They’re going to let me come home tomorrow. You can survive one more night.” He watched Smith sling an arm around Ross’ shoulders, Ross’ little wave. They looked more at ease with each other.

Sips pulled a chair up to the side of the bed as Trott pushed himself to a sitting position. With a grimace, he yanked back the sheet to look at his bare legs. The scar from the lightsaber was thicker, a lurid reddish purple welt slanting from hip almost to his knee. It dimpled where they’d cut away dead muscle, and Trott rubbed the uneven surface. Around it, the surgical scars were thin, narrow lines. Trott stared at his leg, surprised by just how long the scar was. At the time, he’d known it was deep but he didn’t think it was as bad as all that.

“What have I told you about standing still?” Sips sighed. He put his hand on Trott’s knee, just below the scar. His hand was a welcome warmth, familiar. 

“Not to do it?” Trott half smiled.

“You’re lucky he didn’t cut your leg off, Trott.” Sips frowned.

“I know. I was reckless.” Trott sat back. The quiet filled the room, and Trott breathed in deeply. He tried to center himself, reaching for the ebb and flow of the universe. The memories of the fight flitted through his mind, from the first glow of the emergency beacon to the bright white room where he found Marturk waiting.

“Ross told me that you killed him,” Sips said simply. 

“Barely,” Trott admitted. “Only because Smith took a flying leap at him while he was gloating, and distracted him just enough… I thought he was going to kill me, but we got lucky.” He opened the loose robe he wore, and touched his chest, feeling the disconcertingly smooth skin.

Sips sucked in a breath between his teeth, an unhappy sound. They both looked at the wound that very nearly killed Trott, now just a round scar under his collarbone.

“What?” Trott demanded, half angry and half afraid. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

“Trott, come on, I know I didn’t teach you to gloat.” Sips shook his head. “I wish you hadn’t...”

“You wish I hadn’t killed him?” Trott stared, incredulous. It was the last thing he expected to hear. Trott hadn’t had time to think about what Sips would say, but this wasn’t how he imagined it.

“I wish it hadn’t fallen on your shoulders,” Sips said, staring down at Trott’s bare leg. “That I’d been a better man, a better teacher, that you didn’t have to fight him. That you didn’t have to do this.”

“Sips…” Trott didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry, Trott. Fuck. I’m glad you’re alive.” Sips shook himself, visibly pushing away the memories and the old pain with a wave of his hand. Trott had so rarely seen that part of Sips. The man who had sworn off taking apprentices, who had only agreed to let Trott stay a short time until he could return home with enough knowledge to find another teacher. Lots of things had happened that they never meant to happen.

“Me too.” Trott reached out, and Sips folded him into a hug. Trott clung to him, feeling strangely old and young at once, too much like when his home disappeared. Sips was solid as ever, a fixed point in a fearfully uncertain universe.

Trott pressed his face into Sips’ shoulder, trying not to think of the furious glare of Marturk’s eyes in the final moments of his life. They burned like the lightsaber sliding into his chest. In that moment, Trott had been utterly certain he was dead. The only thing that got him moving was the sight of Smith so recklessly bowling Marturk over, and the thought that Smith wouldn’t be able to defend himself against the Sith.

“You’re a better man than most,” Trott said, still holding onto Sips. “You took me in.”

“Reluctantly, miserably, and only because you were good looking,” Sips joked. He sat back with a weary look.

“Still.” Trott tugged his robe closed and let himself sink back against the pillow.

“I think there’s probably a moral dilemma about thanking you for killing someone, even someone like Marturk,” Sips mused. “He wasn’t always such a monster. Always an asshole, but plenty of decent people can be assholes.”

“I didn’t go in expecting to kill him,” Trott said. The adrenaline had kept him from freezing in surprise. He’d expected First Order officers. There would be a fight, but he’d be able to take them. Trott hadn’t expected to see Marturk waiting for him.

“Well, I didn’t expect him to be there either.” Sips sighed. He watched Trott carefully bend his knee, wincing at the deep ache in his leg and the strange feeling of his scar.

“I couldn’t get past him,” Trott admitted. “That’s why I was so stupid, I was trying to get to Smith and Ross…”

“What did he say?” Sips’ eyes were shrewd.

“Cracked a joke about killing your apprentice.”

Sips shook his head. Trott watched him. It was a subject they’d never really talked about, one of those closed chapters of Sips’ life. Trott knew only that it happened five or six years before he came to stay with Sips, and that Sips couldn’t seem to forgive himself for it. In all their years together, Sips had never even breathed the apprentice’s name. Trott wondered if he hadn’t been so wired with adrenaline maybe he could have pried some detail from Marturk.

“What is it with these Sith bastards, and killing apprentices?” Sips muttered. “Like no one’s ever done that one before. Real big man, killing a kid.” He shuddered, one hand clenching into a fist. He squeezed his eyes shut, visibly willing himself to relax. 

“I’m sorry, Sips.” Trott didn’t know what to say. “Do you… fuck.” It disturbed him to see Sips like this.

“It’s okay, Trott.” Sips opened his eyes. “You did what you had to do, and you made it. That’s what matters here.” 

“Do you want to talk about…?” Trott gestured, as if it would somehow evoke the half dozen unsaid things.

“Not today,” Sips answered. “Sometime, but not today, alright?”

“Alright.” 

They sat quietly, and Trott took the time to seek out the Force. It felt different, shaken somehow. Like a choppy lake under a clouded sky.

“Did you feel it?” Trott asked, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” Sips said. “I felt it. Scared the shit out of me, thought something had happened to you guys at first.”

“What happens to us, really?” Trott asked. “I know the whole thing about your spirit returning to the Force and all that.”

“What more do you want, Trott?”

“I mean, are we still us? Do we remember?”

“I think a little bit.” Sips reached out to take Trott’s hand. “A part of us remains. But what it feels like, I don’t know.” Between them, the hum of the Force grew stronger. There was something calmer in it, more settled.

“You’ve talked to people who are…” Trott couldn’t bring himself to say the word dead.

“Yeah, a little.” Sips shrugged. “I mean, it’s not a hell of a lot of conversation. But I guess enough to know the Jedi are at least partially there.”

“I don’t think I want to run into Marturk in the afterlife,” Trott laughed uneasily. “He’s probably pissed.”

“As far as he’s concerned,” Sips said darkly. “I don’t think you need to worry. Marturk’s the sort who is going to sink down in the deep end.” 

Trott thought about that later, when he couldn’t quite fall asleep. He dreamed of the Force like an ocean, a deep lightless stretch of endless waves. Overhead the stars gleamed faintly. In the roar of the surf, Trott strained to make sense of the voices. Water curled around his ankles, washing away the ground under his feet. Trott stumbled, his hands splashing into the dark water that kept pulling at him. The sand slipped more, and the sound became one fizzing, crackling roar. Trott woke with a sudden jerk, breathing hard in the semi darkness of the medical bay. His heart pounded with the sick terror he’d felt at the prospect of death back on Duro. Trott steadied himself, focusing on the small lights on the monitors at the side of the bed, and waited for morning.

 

* * *

 

Physical therapy was an unexpected slog, and it made Trott irritable. He hadn’t anticipated how much it would aggravate him not to be able to walk easily, or to have to use a cane. Going up and down the stairs in their home was a pain. Furious with himself, Trott refused Smith’s offer to make up a bed downstairs. Slowly, Trott ascended and descended while he seethed about his body’s slow recovery.

The exercises were both simplistic and obnoxiously difficult. What felt like it should have been easy was often frustrating. The experience made Trott more snappish than usual, and he had to work to bring himself back down. 

It didn’t help that being forced to do things slowly gave Trott entirely too much time to think. 

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Trott asked, covering his annoyance with his stumbles by questioning Ross. Ross often walked with him to the office of the young medic who oversaw his physical therapy. He didn’t seem to mind Trott’s slow progress along the paths, or waiting while Trott stretched and balanced on the brightly colored mats. Ross just sat outside, his geology text book in his lap.

“I thought this was more important,” Ross said. He let Trott hold his arm to regain his balance.

“Aren’t there plenty of engines to work on?”

“I don’t want to be there right now,” Ross admitted reluctantly. “It’s... “

“It’s what?” Trott looked up at him, curious. The midday sunlight made him squint.

“I’m just trying to sort out what I want to do with my life, that’s all.” Ross shrugged.

“Aren’t we all?” Trott agreed. He fixed his gaze on the steps. Lately he’d had thoughts about that himself. Every ache made him resent the demands of the Resistance, and he privately questioned Smith’s willingness to follow Nano’s sometimes maddening orders.

“Things feel a little weird, since the holo anyways.” 

“I don’t blame you.” Trott grimaced as he felt the stretch and pull of his leg. Walking was supposed to help, and they’d given him a cream to help to ease the scarring so it didn’t tug so tightly on the skin that it hurt. But they couldn’t seem to magically make him functional again.

As much as he chafed at his slow progress, he knew it was necessary. Nothing happened without effort. Sips would no doubt just smile in that exasperating way of his and tell Trott that was his own fault for being reluctant to think about his feelings in the first place.

But the terrible closeness of death made Trott think about what he was doing in this Resistance. For years now, they’d devoted much of their time to these missions, stealing intelligence or diverting needed supplies from the Order. Trott wondered if maybe this was not the best use of his life or his time. He wondered what Smith would say about it. 

The steps to the front door of their home were small, but enough to make him grunt with the effort. Once inside, Trott all but threw the cane into the corner with the coat rack and the pile of shoes. He plopped himself on their little bench with a grateful exhale, bending over to unlace his boots. A tiny trickle of sweat ran down the small of his back. He sat there longer than he needed, listening to Ross drop his book on the table and rubbing at his thigh.

“You hungry?” Ross asked over his shoulder, rummaging in the cupboard. Trott limped carefully to the dining table and sat down.

“A little.” Trott watched Ross dig out some rolls. They really should teach him how to cook, Trott thought. Quite a few times, Trott had come upon a perplexed Ross taking a bite of a raw potato or a Sumer melon, or trying to decipher the instructions on all the packet noodles Smith brought home. He’d picked up how to assemble a well stuffed sandwich from Smith, and knew which things he just needed to add water to now.

“I think we have some leftover roast,” Trott said, pushing up from the table.

“Sit, I’ll get it.” Ross cut slices of roast, layering them with tomatoes and cheese. 

“Put something green on there so we can pretend we’re eating a complete meal.” Trott smiled as Ross added plenty of the soy ginger glaze to the rolls, and a bit of the salad greens Trott kept stocked. 

“Well, it’s better than eating protein bars, right?” Ross set a plate in front of Trott. “There are pickles. Not Smith’s spicy ones, but some from a farm down the river.”

“It’s great,” Trott said. “Really.”

They ate in companionable silence. Trott chewed slowly. The scar on his face didn’t pain him, but sometimes it felt strange. He had to stop himself from picking at it as if he could peel it away.

Ross made them cups of tea, staring into his and turning it endlessly. Trott watched him fidget for awhile, wondering if this was new business or old business. He hadn’t asked how Ross felt, about their mission to Duro ending in such spectacular disaster. None of them had really talked about it much. They probably should fix that, Trott thought. 

“What’s bothering you, Ross?” 

Trott lifted his leg and flexed his ankle. His therapist recommended he do it a couple times a day at home. They seemed silly, small things, all the stretches and exercises. But Trott remembered how so many of the things Sips had him practice seemed silly and weird for a long time. He was trying hard to keep an open mind about it.

“Trott, there’s something I should tell you.” Ross sat on the edge of another chair, watching Trott stretch his foot forward, raising his leg until it was pointed straight in front of him. The first one always seemed so easy. Trott grunted, and let his leg down.

“What is it?” he asked, squeezing his thigh with both hands.

“While you were gone, I slept in your bed.” Ross twisted a napkin around his hand, wrapping and unwrapping it over his knuckles. Trott blinked. It wasn’t what he’d expected to hear. It didn’t surprise him, to think Smith might have sought some kind of comfort while they were separated. 

“I’m not surprised, you shared your bed with your comrades often, didn’t you?” Trott asked, trying to keep his voice gentle. Ross looked so tense, as if he was readying himself for some unpleasant reaction. 

“Yes, but. I know things are different here. And I didn’t  _ do _ anything. With Smith.” Ross’ words tumbled over each other as he stopped and started his sentences.

“Ross, even if you had, it would be fine.” Trott leaned across the table to put his hand over Ross’. He wanted to take away the tension that keyed Ross up into such wariness. Guilt bubbled in his stomach, making him regret not being more warm with Ross from the start.

“Would it?” Ross looked at him warily. 

“Everyone has different arrangements,” Trott said carefully. “Some people, they only want it to be the two of them. Other people are less strict. There’s no hard and fast rule to it other than what you chose to have.”

“Which one are you?”

“The one who knows that nothing in this life should be taken for granted, especially not happiness.”

“That sounds like a Sips non-answer.” Ross frowned at him. Trott chuckled, deeply amused and internally mortified that he was starting to sound like his teacher.

“You’re right.” Trott wondered how best to explain. “Well. Smith and I have taken other people into our bed. Some for a night, some for longer. There are things Smith likes to do that just aren’t possible for one man alone.” 

Ross furrowed his brow, obviously mulling that statement over. His cheeks grew pink, and Trott swallowed a laugh again. He wondered if anyone of Smith’s smutty paperbacks were written in Standard, so Ross could read them. He might benefit from some exposure to the wider world of human relationships. 

“Oh.  _ Oh.  _ Okay.”

“I refuse to believe the First Order’s soldiers don’t trade in smut,” Trott chuckled.

“It’s not that I don’t… know, I just…” Ross flailed for words, and Trott took some pity on him.

“I made him swear not to pressure you,” Trott continued. “Not that you aren’t attractive to both of us, so you know. Just that all of this is still so new for you, being able to express that kind of thing openly. When you’re ready. Not because a certain pilot can’t keep his pants on. And you don’t owe it to us, at all. So if you don’t ever want that, that’s fine too.”

“Understood.” Pink remained in his cheeks, but Ross relaxed a little.

“If you still feel terrible about it, you can come take a nap with me later,” Trott said. He slotted their fingers together. Ross’ hands were almost completely healed up, with hardly any scarring except between his thumb and forefinger. 

“I’ll drool on your shoulder, steal the blankets and do my best impersonation of Smith.” Something lightened in Trott’s chest to see Ross’ lips curve into a smile.

“We could just read in bed,” Ross suggested. 

“That is an excellent idea,” Trott agreed. “Help me up the stairs?”

 

* * *

 

“We have to capitalize on the success of what happened with Duro-” Angor began, spreading his tablet and some data crystals out on the table.

“The success?” Smith snorted. He leaned back in the chair, putting a boot on the edge of the table. Ross kept his comments to himself about the relative success or failure of a mission that involved so much catastrophe. 

“Well, it did make waves.” Angor stared at him, unperturbed. “I’m getting some interesting reports.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Smith said. “From all those rich people who don’t want to do any fighting themselves.”

“Good relations with Duro are important for us to have access to the core-” Nano began from the end of the table. It was just the four of them, sitting around a too large conference table. None of Nano’s aides hovered, those efficient and slightly anxious looking young men and women who seemed to know everything and walk at a speed just shy of running everywhere. 

“I know, I know,” snapped Smith. He leaned back in his chair, arms folded over his chest. 

“Anyways,” Angor continued as if Smith hadn’t spoken. “Instead of more face to face meets, we were thinking of doing more holos. Those can be smuggled to places we don’t have the reach.”

Smith opened his mouth, but Ross spoke up first.

“I was thinking about this.” Ross spread his hand flat against his thigh, trying to keep his resolve. Speaking up in a room full of higher ranking officers, even if they weren’t First Order, was a strange and slightly nerve wracking experience. Angor raised his eyebrows, watching Ross from the other side of the table.

“Alright.” Angor cleared the pad in front of him. “Tell me your thoughts.” 

“I want to make a holo to talk to the troopers.” Ross steadied himself. Angor looked at him for a long moment. His eyes flicked briefly to Smith, and then back to Ross. Nano was silent, and Ross didn’t dare look at her.

“Well that’s something we can talk about, sure.” Angor scratched at his jaw, tilting his head. “There are a lot of people we’d like to speak to-”

“Give him some say,” Smith said. “He’s the one who put his life on the line to help us.”

“I’m fine with that.” Angor shrugged. He tapped at his tablet, bringing up a blank page. “What do you want?”

“I don’t want to keep doing this over and over.” Ross stared at Angor’s expectant face. “I’ll do this, but then I’m done being your symbol.” 

“You’re going to let us see this before you ship it out, Angor.” Smith’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. “Not just spring that little surprise on everyone like the last one.”

“I’m wounded by your lack of faith in me,” Angor said, smirking slightly. “Come on Smith, you know information travels fast. I’m just staying ahead of the curve.”

“Don’t pull your bullshit with me.” Smith glared, arms folded in his leather jacket.

“Fiiine,” Angor drawled with a weary wave of his hand. He glanced to Nano at the end of the table, watching with a carefully impassive face. She gestured, her hand flicking one side. Angor shrugged, and looked back to Ross, who tried to hold back his surprise that it was so easy to get them to agree. 

“So what’s your idea, then?” Angor asked. 

“I want to offer them a place to come, to not have to fight.” Ross looked down at his hands. Just out of the corner of his eye, he could see Smith’s knee bouncing under the table. “I mean, there will probably be some who want to fight, but the ones who don’t… I want them to know they could find a place as well.”

Angor looked at him, his hands steepled in front of his face. Ross made himself meet Angor’s gaze, trying to draw on that lifetime of stillness in the face of authority. 

“Okay,” he said finally. “Okay. So what will you say to them?”

 

* * *

 

Nano pulled Smith out of the conference room, leaving Ross and Angor to talk about the holos. They were near to her office, which was more and less grand than it needed to be. It did not occupy any special place, but the furnishings were nicer than most others. The important feature was the dedicated communications center one floor above them, that gave them the power to reach far and wide through the galaxy. But in here, Nano did much of her work at the wide metal desk with a wooden top. Her walls were decorated with maps, and a large 3D model of a star system currently rotated over the projector on a side table.

“We should talk about what your next-”

“Are we ever even going to touch on the fact you nearly got us killed?” Smith interjected, folding his arms. 

“ _ Excuse _ me?” Nano said, looking up at him. She hated looking up at him, and Smith knew it. Using it was a dick move, but the simmering anger under his skin goaded him.

“That half assed, rushed excuse of a mission that wound up with Trott nearly dying?” Smith continued.

“I seem to recall Trott did quite well on that mission,” Nano said smoothly. She shut the door of her office, closing out her curious aides. Nano shrugged out of her jacket, hanging it carelessly on a wall hook. 

Smith grimaced and flung his hands out to the side. He wanted to hit something, adrenaline making him jumpy and kicking his voice up a notch, too loud for this quiet little room.

“That’s all you care about? That he killed the Sith? Gods be damned, Nano.”

“Well, it is kind of the important part.”

“He nearly  _ died _ , Nano! I thought - I saw that murdering fucker put a light saber right through him-” Smith broke off angrily, sucking in a breath to try and stop himself from weeping. He still sometimes found himself overcome with emotion when he remembered, or considered just how close they’d come.

“I watch him struggle to get up the stairs every day and I think ‘fuck, why did we even go there, what was the point?’ and I wonder.”

“What do you wonder, Commander Smith?” Nano used his title, walking around her desk as if she could make this a more formal conversation by putting it between them. She pushed up the long sleeves of her dark blue shirt, the fabric bunching up just below her elbows.

“Did you know Marturk would be there? Did you know, and leave that out of the briefing?” He flung the question at her with fury.

Nano stared at him, and Smith could not tell what she was thinking. Her face was smooth, closed. Smith wasn’t quite as good at consciously reading people. He worked well on instinct and impulse. But he was too caught up in his own emotions, struggling with the desire to just grab her and shake her until she answered.

“How could you-” Nano began, her voice a shocked whisper.

“Because our contacts on Duro were quite clear he’d been there a lot recently and I have to know if someone just neglected to tell me that little bit of information.” Smith tried to keep the snarl out of his voice. He wasn’t sure he succeeded. 

“Fuck you,” Nano snapped. “How dare you think I’d do something like that.”

“I never, _ ever _ would have let Trott go light years within that place if I’d known-”

“Trott wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place!” Nano lifted her hands in exasperation, wrinkling her nose and giving Smith a look of supreme annoyance.

“Did you think we’d really let Ross go without all the protection we could give him?” 

One of the aides knocked, pushing open the door slightly to peer in with a tablet and a hesitant expression. 

“Out,” Nano demanded, pointing imperiously. The aide hastily backed out, and Nano turned her steely gaze back on Smith.

“You have only yourself to blame for this, Smith- “ said Nano, pushing up her sleeves.

“Because that was my best judgement,-” Smith started to say, but Nano kept talking. Their voices rose, crashing over each other and filling the small room. 

“- you changed the plan-”

“as the commander you wanted-”

“-without even considering the consequences…”

“You pushed me to be this!”

“We are on the edge!” Nano leaned forward on her desk, one hand raised towards the star map model spinning silently by the wall. “Whether the Resistance can continue, if we can push the First Order enough... “

Nano put her shoulders back and took a breath.

“...or whether the rest of the galaxy is going to shrug its shoulders and give up… everything is at stake, Smith. Of course I’m pushing.” She spread her hands over the tablets and data crystals on her desk.

“That doesn’t mean you can just-” Smith broke off, breathing through his nose. His voice wobbled, angry and more upset than he wanted to be. “Just  _ use  _ people to get what you want.” Smith felt petulant, saying it.

“I will use anyone and everyone I have to if it means winning this war-” Nano shook herself, her voice filled with determination. Smith’s head throbbed, and he paced erratically. Nano came out from behind her desk, fists clenched as she stared up at his face. He half expected her to shove him as she moved directly into his path.

“You won’t be any better than they are, Nano-” Smith warned.

“You have  _ no idea  _ what it takes to do this-” 

“You think people will forgive -  _ forget  _ \- you used them, because you get results?” His voice oozed with contempt.

“None of what we’re fighting for is worth anything if everyone we love dies!” Smith yelled. 

“We’re all going to die, Smith,” Nano said, her voice dropping unexpectedly. “And some of us will have to die, before this is over. I have sent hundreds of people to their deaths. I think about it every night when I go to bed. I’ll never get away from that. You can have the luxury of saying you don’t want to be in command, you don’t want to make the hard decisions. But I don’t.”

Nano leaned backwards, her hands resting on the edge of her desk. Smith stared at the part in her hair, the glimpse of her scalp. The adrenaline was gone, leaving him feeling tired and vaguely sick to his stomach. He could see the weariness in the slump of Nano’s shoulders.

“That why you’ve got two grey hairs right here?” Smith finally broke the silence with a quip, trying to find a way back from the terrible edge of their conversation.

“Oh fuck off,” Nano groaned. But she lifted her head and gave him a tiny smile. “I do not.”

“You do too, right here…” Smith put a hand on her head, and Nano smacked his arm with a laugh. She walked around the desk a second time, to pull a bottle out of a drawer. 

“I don’t know what our parents were thinking, trying to get us betrothed,” Nano grumbled as she filled two glasses with a vivid red liquor.

“Maybe they thought we’d get tired of beating up on each other,” Smith offered. They hadn’t fought in a long time, he thought. When they were younger, it seemed like half the time they were fighting and the other half of the time they were best friends. He wondered when exactly it had begun to change, that they’d grown apart. They saw each other nearly every day, but often Nano felt like a stranger to him now.

“Thank all our lucky stars we didn’t go through with it, eh?” Nano handed him a glass and sat on the desk. Smith joined her, stretching his legs out while she dangled her feet, heels thumping the drawers. This at least was familiar. They used to sneak into Nano’s mother’s office, steal sips out of the bottle of Corellian whiskey she kept in the bottom drawer.

“Thank fuck,” Smith agreed, clinking his glass with hers. Nano wrinkled her nose at the obscenity, and took a healthy swallow. Smith drank without thinking, and choking at the peppery burn that seared his lips. It spread across his tongue and down his throat, fiery and prickling.

“ _Fu_ -what the?” Smith gasped.

“Homemade,” Nano said, a wistfulness creeping into her tone. “They had a good pepper crop this year back home.”

“I guess so.” Smith coughed, and wished he had a piece of bread or something to stuff in his mouth against the burning. His eyes watered a little.

“I am sorry, about Trott.” Nano turned the glass around in her hands, watching the last bit of the pepper infused vodka swirl. “There are always rumors about the Sith, but I didn’t... Smith. I  _ didn’t  _ know.”

Smith looked at her. He’d known Nano for his entire life, it felt like. He knew she could lie as smoothly and well as a First Order officer. But he didn’t think she would lie about this. He hoped so, and he had to trust that hope. 

“I know,” Smith said, his voice catching a little. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t-”

“No, you should. I would, if I were you.”

They leaned together, shoulder to shoulder. Smith closed his eyes, and gave the universe a half hearted wish that none of them would have to do this much longer. Nano’s feet bumped against the desk, her boots knocking a half hearted beat against the drawers.

“I hate this sometimes,” Smith admitted.

“I know,” Nano agreed. “Me too.” She filled their glasses again.

 

* * *

 

“I hate this sometimes,” Trott admitted to Sips. They sat on top of the canyon, watching ships lift off one by one. Another mission, another plan, and Trott’s stomach clenched at the thought of Smith out there. They’d carefully not argued about it the night before. 

“No one’s making you do it,” Sips said with his infuriating patience. He sat cross legged on a fairly flat boulder a few steps away, looking like some storybook image of a Jedi sage. Except for the ridiculously patterned jacket and trousers he wore, green and yellow lightning bolts on an electric blue background. Trott frowned and tossed a pebble in his general direction. It bounced in the grass, rolling to a stop by Sips’ feet. He didn’t feel the whispery power of the Force, so it must have been dumb luck. 

“You’re not exactly the role model, since you come in and sit in on her meetings, hang around out here.”

“I’m comfortable with my choices, Trott, about what I choose to do and what I choose not to do.” Sips looked up at the sky. “And I hang around out here mostly because you’re here.”

Trott groaned and sat back, propping himself up on his elbows. The grass was fading into a summer gold around them. He propped his cane against a nearby rock.

“But really, you aren’t pledged to keep doing missions. Whatever Smith decides to do, you also can make a choice.”

“I know,” Trott said quietly. “I know.” He twirled a stalk of grass around his fingers. He could feel his body getting stronger, recovering from his injuries. The physical therapist had released him, with an admonishment to come back if anything bothered him or he had trouble. He still needed to use the cane more than he liked, but it was getting easier. 

“Ross could probably use some help, setting things up for his project,” Sips said in his deliberately casual way. Trott stared at him, and then flopped back in the grass. Overhead, the ships drifted higher and higher until they were tiny points of light.

“I found a place that might be good for what he wants, not too far. You want to come look at it with us?” 

“Yeah,” Trott said, still looking up at the sky and the stars. “I think I’ll do that.” It would be nice to get away from the base for a day. Be outside. Think about something other than the Resistance and Nano and the war. He stretched his senses, feeling the steady sense of the Force around them. Ever since that nightmare about a black ocean, Trott couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t quite doing what he needed to be doing with his life.

“Jena’s offered to send some help with the heavy lifting to get a place started.”

“You really think you can make farmers out of soldiers?” Trott asked, curious.

“Maybe, maybe not.” Sips shaded his eyes against the setting sun. “But it will be a place they can take the time to decide who and what they want to be, and a farm gives you enough work to keep busy in the meantime.”

“True.” Ross had needed things to do almost all the time in those first months. He was only just starting to learn how to relax, to not be antsy with nothing to do.

“Maybe Ross could raise llamas,” Sips said thoughtfully. 

“No,” Trott said without thinking. “The hell if I’m going to be around more Tinas.”

“Aww, Trott!” Sips just laughed. The lights of the ships faded into stars in the deep blue end of the sky.

 

* * *

 

Trott wrapped himself in his new robe, the whisper soft cotton striped in purple and red. It was Smith’s gift from the mission, picked up at the last station when he refueled for the long flight home. He brought Ross some technical manuals on various types of farm machinery, and a whole bag of sweets. Smith loved the way his eyes lit up at the sight of them. Apparently the First Order didn’t give their stormtroopers very much sugar. Trott made him promise not to eat the entire bag in one sitting.

Smith couldn’t take his eyes off Trott when they were together now. Kind of like when they first met, the two of them restless, unwilling participants in a meeting of Resistance leaders. Smith had tilted his head towards a door, and Trott slipped away from Sips with some excuse as Smith escaped his parents. Thinking back, Sips probably saw right through it, Smith mused. But they were bored teenagers, tired of listening to the adults argue. Smith remembered how captivated he was by Trott’s braid, the way it swung behind him as he climbed the ladder to the roof. 

“You want me to brush your hair?” Smith offered, patting the bed beside him. Trott met his gaze in the mirror, and picked up a brush. He untied his hair, shaking it out over his shoulders before he handed the brush to Smith. The handle was worn smooth from years of use, a dark wood from a faraway planet. Another gift, from another mission. 

Pulling himself into a sitting position, Smith let his legs dangle on either side of Trott on the edge of the bed. He pulled the brush slowly through Trott’s hair from the top of his head to the very ends near his waist.The bristles made a pleasant rustling as they moved through Trott’s thick, brown hair. Trott’s eyes were closed, and he leaned ever so slightly into each stroke. It gleamed in the lamplight, and smelled faintly minty from his conditioner. Some strands gleamed with golden highlights. Smith leaned forward, rubbing his face in Trott’s hair.

“Where’s Ross gone to?” Trott asked.

“Playing cards with Tom, and some of the pilots.” 

“Probably picking up all kinds of bad habits there.”

“Mmm.” Smith wiggled himself closer so he could wrap his arms around Trott. “They won’t be back for a good while yet…” He pulled Trott’s hair back to kiss his neck.

With surprising swiftness, Trott twisted around. He pushed Smith back on the bed, climbing on top of him. Smith pushed his hands into Trott’s hair, savoring the feeling of it bunching around his fingers, and falling around their faces while they kissed. Trott bit his lip, hard, and Smith moaned. Their teeth knocked together as they kissed, hasty and deep like when they were just horny seventeen year olds meeting in secret. Smith laughed as Trott yanked and pushed down Smith’s pajama pants. He wiggled them off, kicking them away. Trott sat up long enough to untie the sash of his robe and shrug it off. Smith watched him, fingers stroking up Trott’s chest and over his stomach. The scar on his chest looked like something from a map, a pink sunburst against Trott’s tan, and paler than his nipples. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Smith said, his voice tinged with wonder.  The scars only made him more so, in Smith’s mind. 

“Shut up and fuck me,” Trott said testily, pinning Smith’s hands to the bed. He shifted his hips on Smith, grinding down against him. Smith laughed again, caught off guard by the intensity of it all. Delighted, he stretched his neck up to kiss Trott again.

“Your leg okay, like this?” Smith asked, pushing his hips up into Trott.

“Yeah,” Trott panted. He reached between them to stroke their cocks together.  

“Trott, Trott.” Smith arched his back, eyes half closed. He opened his mouth when Trott’s fingers pushed at his lips, sucking on them. Trott’s hand, sticky with spit and precome squeezed Smith’s cock. He moved to straddle Smith, taking an extra second to carefully fold his leg against Smith’s side.

The sight of Trott reaching behind himself, back curved and one hand planted on Smith’s chest for balance, rendered Smith momentarily speechless. He braced Trott with a hand on his chest and the other gripping his shoulder, feeling Trott lean his weight into his hands. Trott was quick in his preparations. With a shuddering sigh, he sank down on Smith’s cock.

“Okay?” Smith murmured, rubbing his hands over Trott’s thighs. The scar was a strange texture, smooth and slightly rippled. Trott pressed his knees into Smith’s sides, settling himself as he pushed Smith’s cock deeper inside himself. Smith let out his breath slowly, trying not to move.

“Uh huh,” Trott groaned, his eyes closed. Smith stared at him, emotions careening wildly in his head even as the hot press of Trott on top of him pushed him into a state of bliss. 

“Fuck, Trott,” Smith whispered. Trott smiled faintly, and began to rock his hips, sliding up and down Smith’s length in short strokes. He opened his eyes, shaking loose hair out of his face to look down. The gleam of sweat over his lip and on his chest caught the lamplight, and Smith’s heart stuttered. He stared at Trott, the dark fall of hair and the warm glow of his bare skin seemingly the brightest thing in his view.

“Trott… I love- _fuck_ , I love you.” Smith’s voice broke and stammered, the words coming out without any pause. Trott watched him, one hand on the bed by Smith’s head, the other still firmly pressed into his chest. He moved faster, riding Smith with an intensity that pushed Smith close to the edge. 

“Touch me, sunshine,” Trott whispered, his voice rough. He moved Smith’s hand from his scarred thigh to his cock, wrapping his fingers over Smith’s. Out of his mind with pleasure, Smith’s strokes were erratic at first. He tried to match the rhythm of Trott’s hips, thumb rubbing circles around the head. Trott let his head fall, hair brushing Smith’s chest where it slipped over Trott’s shoulders.

“That’s it, that’s it.” Trott moaned, and Smith came in a blinding rush of pleasure, aware only of the feeling of Trott on top of him, the sheets underneath him, and the reddish darkness behind his eyelids. His hand tightened on Trott, and within a couple moments he felt the hot spatter of Trott coming on his stomach.

“Fuck,” Trott panted. He laughed slightly, before he rolled off Smith with a groan to sprawl gracelessly on the bed. Smith rolled over to spoon him, face buried in Trott’s hair.

“I love you,” Trott said, rubbing his foot against Smith’s calf. They laid quietly, and Smith felt such an overwhelming gratitude that Trott was home, in their bed. Tears pricked at his eyes, and Smith swallowed hard. He curled his arm over Trott, holding him close.

“I feel like I need a whole new shower, what about you?” Trott asked. Smith nuzzled him, trying to swallow away the lump in his throat before he spoke. But he took too long, and Trott wriggled around to face him, curiously tipping Smith’s face towards him.

“Smith?” He sounded concerned, and it made Smith ache even more. “Smith, are you alright?”

“Yeah, I just-” Smith closed his eyes, feeling tears escape him. “Damn it.”

“Oh sunshine.” Trott pulled him in, moving up the bed so he could hold Smith’s head to his chest. With his face to Trott’s warm skin, Smith stopped trying to hold back. He sobbed, his face pressed to Trott. Tears dripped, hot and salty, into his mouth and made Trott’s skin slick. Shoulders shaking, Smith cried himself out while he hugged Trott. He was dimly aware of Trott’s hand combing through his hair, the occasional sound of Trott’s voice. 

“I’m sorry,” Smith whispered, his voice scratchy. He heaved a shuddering breath.

“Did I fuck you too hard?” Trott asked, mock serious. “Break your dick?”

“No,” Smith laughed, and hiccuped. He shifted, keeping his face close to Trott’s chest. It was easier to talk like this, with his eyes closed. “Just. I was so scared, Trott, that you weren’t going to make it.”

“Smith.” Trott hugged him. “It’s okay.”

“I know. I just- it was awful. I don’t know if I could have made it if you- Ross did all the hard work, on the way home.” Smith knew he was babbling, but the feelings he’d tried to keep firmly in check were loose. Maybe if he vomited all the words up, he’d stop feeling quite so anxious. Trott rubbed a soothing hand through his hair, and down the back of his neck.

“I didn’t even know what I was going to do when I tackled him, I just thought he’d killed you.”

“It was brave,” Trott murmured. “Stupid as the universe is wide, but brave.”

“Fuck you, I thought you were dead.” Smith sniffled. “I was going to hurt him, I didn’t care what happened to me.” He rubbed his face on Trott’s chest.

“I’m sorry I fucked up like that,” Trott said, his voice full of regret. 

“No, Trott.” Smith pulled himself up so they were face to face. “You didn’t fuck up.”

“I should have gotten there faster,” Trott whispered. He touched Smith’s face, one finger on his jaw. 

“You always get there,” Smith whispered back. 

“One day I’m not going to make it.” Trott looked anguished, and Smith felt that icy thread of fear again. He crushed Trott to him, as if the intensity of his grip could banish it.

“You’re always with me,” Smith whispered, stroking Trott’s cheek and his scar. “I can always feel you there.” He wiggled his fingers, and Trott smiled.

They laid there for awhile, long enough for the tears to dry, and the breeze from the open balcony door to cool the sweat on Trott’s back. Smith thought about getting up to shower, or even to put his pajama pants back on in case Ross came back, and wanted to sleep in there with them. With Trott back home now, Ross had retreated to his room. But it pained Smith to see the quiet loneliness, and he encouraged Ross to come sleep with them. About half the time, Ross accepted the offer. Smith was quite happy to take the middle of the bed. No matter which way he rolled in the night, he would end up cuddling with someone.

“Let’s take a shower, before Ross gets home.” Trott kissed Smith’s face, his eyelids and his brow. Reluctantly, Smith followed him to the bath, holding Trott’s hand. He feel foolish, like a child needing reassurance. But it was hard to let go. Even in the shower, he stuck close. Trott felt warmer than the water, his body molded to Smith’s under the spray. Smith brushed a wet strand of hair out of Trott’s face.

“Would you be unhappy with me, if I never went on a mission again?” Trott asked suddenly.

“No,” he said, startled by the abrupt question. “That’s your call. You know I wouldn’t make someone fly if-”

“I know,” Trott interrupted. “But I know this has been your entire life and...” He grimaced, a deep crease between his brows.

“You’re my life,” Smith said. He kissed Trott’s forehead, trying to smooth away the frown. “No matter what, Trott.”

 

* * *

 

Ross took a deep breath, smothering his nervousness. He didn’t like these hallways, where Angor and Nano and the other commanders had their offices. They were rough, almost nothing like the sleek halls of the First Order’s empire. But they were the same in their dull colors and lack of windows. Maybe unsettling hallways were just a feature of governments, no matter where. Trott had offered to come with, but Ross demurred. He needed to do this alone. 

“They’ve been in transit for a week,” Lomadia said. “We picked them up almost a month ago actually.” She walked briskly beside him, her golden hair loose and bright against her flight jacket. The symbol of the resistance was stitched in gold and white on her shoulder, but there were no other obvious signs of rank. It perturbed Ross slightly, not to be able to immediately assess someone’s position by the pins on their collar or the stripes on their jacket. The Resistance seemed to play very loose with their insignias.

“Where have they been for a month?” Ross asked. He imagined prison cells, interrogations, flights blindfolded. The terror of blank spaces, time without measure and the uncertainty.

“We took them off world, to an outpost we have not far from Yavin, and then hopped them a couple times.” She glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. “Mostly to make sure they weren’t followed, but also to make sure they weren’t -”

“Spies,” Ross finished her sentence, trying to keep any emotion out of his voice.

“Well, we do have to be careful. They’ve tried before, they will again.” 

Ross understood. That didn’t mean he had to like it. He didn’t say anything, instead matching his stride to Lomadia’s. He had to hope they hadn’t been tortured. Surely the First Order was questioning their squad, with the usual methods. 

“We debriefed them, of course,” she continued, unperturbed by his silence. “It all checked out. There’s no chatter on the official channels, but some of our people were able to verify that a troop detachment was held up for an extra two days with no explanation. It matches their story about disappearing on from a deployment.”

They paused while Lomadia swiped her key card in a door. Ross held it open for her out of habit. She looked at him, and nodded, as if it had been a courtesy instead of a reflex around an officer. Ross bit the inside of his cheek, slightly mortified. There were too many things tangled up from his former life in this one now. But Lomadia didn’t comment, continuing her story as they walked down another grim hallway. 

“One of them was able to tell us almost word for word what you said in your holo message,” said Lomadia. “Apparently they found one of the copies smuggled into a supply depot and it was making the rounds through troop transports.” 

“Then it worked,” Ross said wonderingly.

“Looks like,” Lomadia agreed, sounding surprised.

He felt a queasy sense of anticipation. Knowing his words persuaded some other stormtrooper, that he wasn’t the only one with these doubts… Ross wondered what they thought of him, where he came from. He wondered if any of his squad survived. If the squad of these stormtroopers survived. He tried to push away his doubts, all his worries. He could think about that later.

Ross knew that Nano had supported his idea, over the objections of several others. They’d all wanted more, and different things from him. But Nano let him go, remarking only that the Resistance did not practice conscription or slavery, and they wouldn’t start now. Ross hadn’t been back in the hallways of the command offices since.

Instead, he spent his time with Sips and a few people from Jena’s farm who helped him build the first structures on the wide swath of land further down the river. Ross felt an intense pride and satisfaction in watching the building come together. There was a barn now, and the house was coming together. It was only a single story, much like Sips’ place. But it had a wide porch that looked at the slope down towards the river, and Ross was looking forward to watching the sun come up there in the near future.

Lomadia stopped in front of an unmarked door, interrupting Ross’ thoughts. A woman sat in the hallway in a chair, looking like anyone waiting for an appointment. The only thing that gave her away was the blaster in her belt. There was a book and a glass of water on the little table between the two chairs. 

“Thank you,” Ross said hurriedly. 

“No need to thank me.” Lomadia tilted her head. “We’ll be outside, if you need anything.” She settled in the other chair, crossing one leg over the other. The second woman looked at him, openly curious. Ross set his shoulders, and opened the door. It wasn’t locked.

Inside the small room, two people rose to their feet. They both had the close cropped hair of soldiers, black and brown. The shorter woman stood at attention, her chin up and her hands clasped behind her back. The other woman rested a hand on her shoulder, her dark eyes studying Ross intently. They both wore simple blue jumpsuits, looking like ship mechanics more than soldiers except for the wariness in their faces. 

He hadn’t thought about what he was going to say. For a frozen moment they stared at each other. An electric sense of connection filled him. These were his people, even if he’d never seen them before, and they were here because of him. The weight of that responsibility felt enormous, like becoming a squad leader but even more.

“RS-8891 of squad 512,” he said slowly. “People here just call me Ross.” He pulled the collar of his jacket aside and turned so they could see the tattoo on the back of his neck.

“SA-3780 of squad 217,” the shorter woman said. She stepped forward

Ross held out his hand, bumping his knuckles with her in the way of old soldiers would do with the new ones joining their ranks. It brought memories swimming to the surface, of a ship transporting him far from the training facility where he grew up. 

“It really is you.” SA-3780’s voice shook. “Oh thank all our fucking stars, this is real.” She covered her face with her hands, overwhelmed. Her shoulders shook slightly. The other woman squeezed her shoulder briefly before stepping forward.

“RM-7245 of squad 217,” the other woman said. She extended her hand, her scarred knuckles bumping Ross’ hand. She looked older, lines worn in the corners of her eyes and mouth. 

“I’m glad you came,” he said carefully. “Do you want to take a walk? I’d like to show you what it looks like outside.”

They both nodded, and Ross opened the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Some self reflective meta on the writing of this story, and the original inspiration.](http://threeplusfire.tumblr.com/post/160299622481/about-keep-forever)


End file.
